Mature Nude Photos - The Debate Over Nude Mature Women

If you have missed the previous instalments the premise of the story is that after a football match, the losing team must provide sexual relief for the victorious players; the narrator has recently admitted his bisexuality to himself, his team and his fiancee.
Previous chapters for Winners and Losers are at http://ift.tt/1rieZ80



My "coming out" to my team mates went a lot better than I expected. There was some changing room humour the following training session when I came into the dressing room to find a pink tutu on my peg. I wasn’t bothered about it but the Captain was, and he made the perpetrator, Ben, wear it for the entire evening as we practised our distribution around the pitch.
I owed our Captain a lot. He held the team together through his strong leadership and his rejection of Ben’s misguided actions was firm and decisive. As he demanded in his forceful tone, "there’ll be no homophobia on my watch."
Our next match was our first live television broadcast, and the cup quarter-final. We had been drawn to play Elvedon Bridge Warriors at home. The league winners from the previous season had already played us twice, beating us at home and drawing with us away, and they were one of the toughest teams to play against.
Our pitch had suffered greatly from a handful of downpours, and the slippery grass was almost bog-like. The league and the referee surveyed the playing surface before kick-off and despite the opposition complaining that it was "unplayable," the referee disagreed.
I was interviewed before the match by GaySportsTV; I was the "midfield general" of the team and the muscular ex-professional was as interested in my thoughts of the opposition as much as my views on the obvious sexual content post-game. There was humour as my answers went from "penetrating their back line" to "penetrating their backsides!"
Their team line-up lacked balance; their pacy forward runners were being fed long, aimless punts and our stocky defenders easily gathered the long-balls as they towered over the diminutive but agile strikers. Dmitri opened the scoring from a clever turn and Lee doubled our advantage before half-time after some clever interplay between our attackers.
The partisan crowd were delighted, the cameras were filming a one-sided game of football. Although the opposition pulled one back after the restart when Ben sliced a clearance into our goal, our right winger restored a two goal advantage moments later. Despite twenty minutes of non-stop pressure they could only force a consolation goal seconds from full-time.
We had won 3-2, but that told only a fraction of the story. We had outplayed and outfought them for most of the match. We had dominated them and their makeshift team were lucky we didn’t score more than three. The league representative skidded onto the pitch, clipboard in hand and with a microphone for the PA system; it was a cup game so slightly different rules applied.
"The losing team will each run from one side of the pitch to the other. The slowest player will be gang-banged by the victorious team."
We sat back and watched, eyeing the players and making wagers as to which one would lose. There were a few wheezing players towards the end of full-time.
The losing player was a young, fit, agile and nimble striker. He raced into a small lead, was tripped from behind and the rest of his team pushed him back to the mud as they ran past him; he swore at them, they laughed sadistically.
It was a great example of their failure as a team: the teamwork and camaraderie was non-existent. His team had intentionally chosen him to be slaughtered because he was faster than them. I felt somewhat sorry for the loser, and continued to do so until I heard his arrogance in our dressing room. His over-confident demeanour was unwelcome, unrequired and very ill-advised. He was being fucked moments later as we took turns in plowing the young man’s hole. His grunts filled the room, as he coughed on the dicks rammed down his throat.
His eyes streamed as cock after cock came in his mouth and his hole became well fucked. All captured from three angles by GaySportsTV in glorious High Definition and streamed live onto the Internet.
It was a complete humiliation; the plundering of his masculinity being so public. We all knew men and women across the world were masturbating to the sight of him being taken so overwhelmingly. They would be loving the desperate grunts and groans from us all. They would be adoring the sweaty sheen and muddy bodies of the seventeen men fucking the helpless loser. But most of all, they would be wanking to the expressions of utter debauchery and strained submission plastered onto the strained face of the arrogant boy.
I smacked his buttocks before I plundered his booty, pushing my sheathed cock into his lubricated hole and filling his arse with my erect manhood. He grunted into Dmitri’s cock stuffing his mouth. We worked a good rhythm with each other, pushing against his wriggling body with deep, passionate thrusts at the same time.
I laughed with Dmitri; we high-fived each other, as was becoming a common trait in the League’s new rules after-match parties. It was captured by the cameras, and it showed the contempt the victorious team had for the losing players; it objectified them. It highlighted our dominance.
And our bitch was wriggling underneath us, squealing as I felt my orgasm approach. I grabbed his hips, drawing myself deep into his rectum with my thrusts into his backside until I came with a desperate pant.
It was fantastic, and as I slid away from the man, another of my colleagues took my place. The young loser was being well fucked; it was addictive viewing and a desperately hot sight.
"You were fantastic!" Emit’s summation of my weekend performance in the office on Monday morning was limited in as much as its praising overtones. "And the commentators said you were the engine of the team!"
"Yeah well …" I blushed; I had recorded and watched the GaySportsTV analysis of the game more than once since the match. Having an ex-professional describe my performance in positive terms was Oxygen to the ego.
Emit waited for the lull in the conversation to invite me to his birthday celebrations. "We are just going for a few beers on Friday," he promised and then shrugged. "And then onto a strip bar in Manchester. I’ve got a couple of hotel rooms booked."
"I can’t get pissed." He pouted forlornly at me, begging me to reconsider. "If I do, then I’ll be tired for the match, and then we’ll lose and I’ll be buggered by a giant brute called Jason or Tyler or something …"
After all, I was the midfield general. My team needed me! But Emit was a colleague and I agreed to go for the evening and leave first thing in the morning. He gave me a knowing glance and I guessed what he wanted from me. Emit’s birthday booze-up started at lunchtime with the smuggling of beer into the office. Our manager turned a blind eye to obvious rowdiness around Emit’s desk and the celebrations continued at a local bar. The train to Manchester caused a small interrupt in the alcohol consumption, before the dozen boozy blokes checked into one of Emit’s four rooms in a motel-like establishment to dump their belongings.
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