A football hooligan meets his match

Reader discretion is adviced, this story contain graphic content depicting violence and rape which may not be suitable to all readers. This is a fictional story and do not portray real events or real persons.

AFTERMATH

After encountering those Millwall lads, I had to spend Sunday without a stitch of clothing on. Fortunately, it being the end of spring, it was a warm day, so I was comfortable leaving the windows and balcony doors open. It wasn’t just the fact that my hole had been wrecked by their cocks and a dildo or two, that recovered quickly enough, although having a shit had been challenging for twenty-four hours, and letting out a fart was taking a chance, it was the caning that hurt the most. The red marks were turning purple, and I still had that fucking Millwall tattoo on my arse, which was now starting to itch. Even naked, I could only stand or lie on my front, my arse covered in Savlon. I had got all of the bits of wax off me, so it was just as well the cunts had shaved me. I would have hated to try and pick wax out of a hairy belly. I did check in the mirror and saw no more red wax. Having no body hair also looked quite good, as it showed my muscles and tatts off a bit, which got me posing in front of the mirror with a hard-on, but I wasn’t going through all that shaving just for that. The black eye hurt, but I had had those before. The skin on my back had recovered from the flogging. My cock was still a bit sore, as were my tits, and my jaw felt a bit strange from fitting those enormous cocks in my mouth.

Monday, I was back at work. I wore shorts on site for the first time that year. It was just about warm enough day and I was known for working stripped to the waist and wearing shorts from March to November, so nobody commented. They were also too busy making jokes about my shiner. Well, let them. Millwall did that. By the end of the day, I was feeling much less abused, but every time I thought about how those four cunts had fucked my mouth and arse for their own pleasure, and tortured the shit out of me, I got hard. Very hard. My cock was poking up in my work shorts half the day, and my nipples kept on sticking up. When I got back home, I barely got my work gear off before I was wanking myself off again in the shower. I didn’t go to the gym that night, because I was too sore.

Tuesday, second day of work. Still in shorts with an arse covered in Savlon, but it was all healing, and I took take a shit without holding the sides of the pan. The bruises from the cane were purple and less sore, but I needed to do something about the tattoo. I booked a slot on Friday evening after work. I needed something to cover it up. I wore a wrestling suit to the gym to train, as the material moved with me as I carried out my powerlifting work-out, squats, dead lifts and bench presses, with a few other supplementary exercises. I didn’t shower there or use the sauna as I usually did.

By Wednesday I was almost back to normal, no longer sore, and I had another good session in the gym. I was going to take those Millwall fuckers one by one. I could feel my body hair coming back, and I guessed it would take a month or so to grow back anywhere near where it was. I did think I might keep the pubes shaved. A lot of blokes at the gym had no pubes, and most of them were straight.

On Friday, after work, I went to the tattooist, where I had an appointment. I met up with Dave, who had done most of my inkwork. He was a big, bald bear, inked from neck to ankles, with a huge beard. I had always fancied Dave, as I have always had a thing for big lads. We went into a room off the main studio, and I dropped my shorts. I had deliberately gone commando, which made Dave raise his eyebrows, and I turned round so that he could see my bare buttocks.

“Fucking hell, who did this to you?” he said, looking at the mess on my arse.

“I had a ruck with some Millwall lads,” I said in reply. I was beyond being embarrassed. I’d been fucking gang-raped, but nobody would ever believe it, especially as my cock reached for the sky every time that I thought about it.

“Some ruck,” Dave answered. “Do the Millwall crew look this bad?”

“Four on one, so no. But I want to get them all.”

Dave bade me to lie down on my front on a couch so he could get a better view of my arse, both professionally and personally. I know he wanted it.

^Okay,” said Dave, “I can cover this up.”

“Anything, mate, as long as I can’t see Millwall.”

“I suggest a dragon, so I can hide the blue. It’s in keeping with the other tats.  By the way, I’ve seen this once before,” said Dave. “The Millwall tat and these bruises. That was on an Arsenal fan who looked in a bad way. He went to the police to say he’d been beaten up and gang-fucked by four Millwall lads. The pigs weren’t interested, of course. Just laughed.”

“Really? Did he know who they were”

Of course, the way I said that gave the game away. Dave placed a surgically-gloved hand on my arse. He said softly: “They did that to you, too?”

“And I get a fucking hard-on every time I think about,” I blurted out angrily.

Dave laughed: “Your first time, was it?”

“Yeah.”

Dave knew I was gay, but in the closet. Some things you can’t hide from a man who spends hours close to you decorating your skin, like I was too macho to be straight. I knew Dave was gay. He lived above the shop with another big, chubby, bald, bearded bear called Phil, who was also inked from neck to ankles. Phil had retired from tattooing, and now worked as a nurse. Really.

Dave’s gloved hand slid down to my hole.

“How is it now? Up for your second time?”

“For fuck’s sake, I’ve come here to get a nasty tat off my arse!” I answered, not really angry. My bastard cock was also standing up like a fucking pole.

“Your cock says yes”, Dave laughed. And it did: it looked like it was going to take off and fly to the moon like a rocket from Cape Canaveral.

Dave turned me over on to my back and reached over to kiss me. Our tongues met. He tasted slightly of peppermint. I felt an intense focus in my mouth as we kissed, but things were happening elsewhere in my body – my cock wanted to go into something, my nipples were sticking up and my arse felt twitchy. Whatever else those Millwall boys did to me, they certainly woke me up. Dave was now pulling at my T-shirt, which he lifted up over my head, so I was now naked on his couch, apart from my sports socks, which I kicked off. I am a gentleman as well as a big tattooed thug.

Dave took control. He licked my armpits, which were starting to give off a smell of fresh musk, and moved on to my nipples, which he bit and nibbled and licked until I was writhing with pleasure. His tongue now moved down over my hard tummy into my pubic Fuzzy Felt.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for ages,” said Dave, as he took my erect cock in his mouth, and wet the shaft.

Dave knew how to love a cock. Having rolled back my foreskin, he gently licked the helmet before nibbling the frenum and the tender rim of my spongey helmet. Next, he took my whole pole down to the hilt, sucking it like a vacuum cleaner, rubbing it up and down with his mouth. The sensations caused me to lie back and let him continue, but I came far too quickly with a cry, launching a column of spunk into Dave’s mouth. He swallowed the lot and licked me until my cock couldn’t take the pleasurable pain any more.

“My turn now,” he said, moving me on to my front, quickly slipping off his clothes and dousing my hole in lubricant. I lay there in post-orgasmic bliss as he slipped one, then two, then three fingers into my willing hole. He manoeuvred into position.

“You’ve got a rock-hard arse so this’ll be a firm ride,” he sniggered, his cock passing through the first ring and piercing the second. I squirmed, but Dave’s cock was a nice British standard size, and well lubricated. It took control, rubbing up and down against my prostate gland, filling me with a desire to shoot. I felt so full, and so safe compared with my rape. Dave started to pump more quickly, and I felt his cock hard inside my arse. It felt so good. In a few minutes he was pumping away like a steam locomotive, and I felt my spunk rise up in me. Dave grabbed my shoulders and cried out as he came, filling my hole with his spunk, just as a wave of pleasure rolled through my entire arse, balls and cock and I shot another column of cum, this time on to the couch.

Dave went still, and in time my arsehole expelled his softening cock. He wiped himself and put on his trousers, shoes and socks. He often worked stripped to the waist.

“Thanks,” he said.” You’re a beautiful man. Now at least I’ll have my mind on the tattoo and not your arse.”

I lay on my front, naked, my cock sticking to the couch, as Dave manoeuvred the tattoo needle on to my arse, and began. To be honest, getting a tattoo on your arse is just uncomfortable and not particularly painful, unlike getting one on your inner wrist or neck or head, which is why I don’t have any in those places, and I look enough of a thug not to need gangster tats on my head or neck. Dave had brought me again off when he fucked me, so I lay there, relaxed and slightly sleepy, as he worked away for two hours overwriting the badge with a nice big dragon.

FINDING MILLWALL

Being fucked by Dave was nice but didn’t get me any closer to finding out who the four lads were. I sat down and had a long think. I wondered about finding out where the Arsenal lad hung out, but I had a feeling I would get nowhere. I also wasn’t admitting to a Gooner that I’d been gangbanged by four Millwall boys, either. That meant I had to do a bit of spadework myself, and I’m not inconspicuous, but I do know my football. That meant getting tickets to some Millwall games and watching out for the crew: it also meant I had to have a chat with people in low places.

I also did a bit of research on the Pink Lions website and some of the other fanzine websites, and did not come up with much. I approached it then from a slightly different angle, looking through the media for gay London, and found, eventually, what I was looking for. There is an annual Pride march in London, and over the years a number of football and rugby clubs have become involved. Either they are gay clubs, in which case all of the players (I presume) are gay, or there are gay supporters’ clubs. The Pride of Irons represented West Ham, my lot, and instinctively I thought “our queers are better than your queers”, and then remembered I was one myself, the Gay Gooners represented Arsenal, and so on: it took a while to find the Pink Lions, and even longer to find any pictures. I don’t know why: nobody’s going to call you a poof or something like that if you’re Millwall. You’d be taking your life in your hands, and you could end up in hospital. Or fucked up the arse by several thugs. When I found a picture of the Pink Lions with a banner, I spotted the four of them.

Now I had to find out where they lived or worked: I bought home tickets for some games, knowing I was taking my life in my hands, and took along my kleptomaniac cousin Jimmy, who had a loyalty card for various prisons, always for picking pockets or petty theft. He was a lukewarm supporter of Millwall as well, but I didn’t hold that against him. I just needed to make sure that the West Ham tattoo on my upper arm never saw the light of day, and Jimmy kept quiet. He had a job to do. I had to watch two games without any luck before we found the gang.

Jimmy picked the pocket of the older guy and I had now had his name and address. Steve. And I’d got his place of work.

I planned out what I was going to do to Steve, and it wasn’t going to be nice. In my lock-up I built a St. Andrew’s cross, an X-frame, and a pair of stocks in which I was going to make him kneel whilst I tortured him. I was going to clamp his nipples so tight he would scream when I took the clamps off, tie up his balls till they wanted to burst and then cane them, cane his arse till he looked like a zebra, whip the skin on his back till it was red, cane the soles of his bare feet, and rape him with bigger and bigger dildos before I force-fucked him. I also set up cameras to film him, and got together a selection of whips, canes and paddles. I wanted to film that moment where he begged me to stop and then took a faceful of my spunk.

STEVE

I got a contract on a development in the Docklands area, where Steve was working. I had worked with the foreman before, and he was delighted to see me again. I was going to be carrying bricks and blocks up and down ladders all day, tough work at the best of times, but I loved it. The blokes on site came from everywhere, white British, black British, Irish, Poles, Romanians, Bulgarians and Balts, and it looked like we’d have a good laugh. A lot of them were dressed in just work shorts, work boots, hard hats and a hi-vis vest, or stripped to the waist, and there was a smell of fresh sweat and testosterone which made me feel hard and horny. They were also all shapes and sizes, but mostly either beefy, chubby or just muscular. Skinny blokes don’t always get on with hard labour, or else they don’t stay skinny for long.

It was a few days before I found Steve., and I bumped into him by accident.

I went to work on a new part of the site and saw somebody working on the next level, where I was taking some bricks. It was him, the older guy, Steve. Fuck, he was hot. I hadn’t appreciated that when I was bollock naked, tied up so I couldn’t move, and his huge knob was choking the life out of me, but this guy was an advertisement for a healthy middle age. He was working laying bricks, dressed in just a pair of denim work shorts, with lots of straps around the waist and extra pockets, big tan yellow work boots, wraparound sunglasses and a bright yellow hard hat. His skin had already tanned deeply, with just a single tattoo on his shoulder. Millwall. The club’s badge. His chest and stomach were well-defined, his back was broad and V-shaped, and his shoulders and arms looked strong. He had fit legs, too. He worked quickly, his muscles rippling under his skin. I’m always amazed at how quickly brickies work, and this bloke was fast. Despite the heat he didn’t seem to be sweating, either. He looked as cool as the proverbial cucumber sticking up in my shorts, and as fast as I brought bricks up, he seemed to be laying them.

For my second trip bringing bricks up the ladder, I took my top off, and I caught him looking at me, admiringly, but there was no hint of recognition. For now, I said nothing, but my cock was poking a hole in the loose shorts I was wearing with no underpants. We worked well together, I had to say, and kept up the rhythm with the bricks.

We broke for a few minutes in the morning, sat and had a cup of tea, and when we had finished and went back to work, he followed me up the ladder, and he was getting an eyeful of my cock and balls as they bounced around above him. I wondered if he could see the new dragon tattoo as well. When he came up on to the boards, I could see his cock was stiff in his denim shorts.

“Nice view,” I said, nonchalantly. He reddened just a fraction under his gorgeous tan. We worked together for a few days, and at every opportunity I wore as little as possible and made sure he saw what I had to offer. The day came when I finally got my chance.

We both finished work a little later than the others, and I had already moved my van next to his, so it was the most normal thing in the world to walk together to our vans. It was hot, so I carried my T-shirt, and I am pleased to say, so did he. He went to the back of his van, opened the doors and I quickly threw him in, jumped in afterwards, pulled the doors shut and grabbed him.

Got you, you fucker.

“West Ham here, and it’s time for some payback, so it’s down on your knees, mate, and suck my sweaty cock as hard as you fucking can, you Millwall cunt.” I ordered, only it didn’t work out like that, for he obediently pulled down my shorts, got his mouth right round my cock, swallowed it so that his nose was pressed into the shaved skin above my cock, and it was fucking heaven. A hand came up to knurl my erect nipple, which made me arch my back. I didn’t want this to stop. I put a hand on the back of his head and closed my eyes. The thumb on his free hand, which he somehow wet, was pushing into my hole. I felt it enter: it was a big thumb.

It also did its job. With his thumb pressed on my prostate, and my cock dangling down his oesophagus, he brought me to a spine-tingling orgasm in seconds.

“You gave me a great blowjob that time so I’m happy to return the favour,” he said, licking the last drops of spunk out of my knob’s eye. “I’m Steve, by the way. Let’s take a break and go back to yours to clean up, have a shower together, and carry on,” he suggested.

“Sweet,” I answered. “I’m Darren, by the way, and I prefer Darren, not Daz or Dazza.”

I was happy to leave my van on site, security being very good, and in any case, if anything happened, I would make sure the security guards weren’t able to walk for a few years. I sat in the passenger seat, directed Steve to my allotted parking spot, and we took the lift up to my flat.

Inside, we hugged each other, and kissed deeply. Item by item, off came our clothes, vests, T-shirts first, so that we could play with each other’s’ nipples, and I could nuzzle and lick Steve’s musky, sweaty armpits. I went down on my knees, and undid his work shorts, pulling them down and taking his stiffening tool into my mouth, my nose pushed into his sweaty pubes. He groaned. We stopped then to take off my shorts and our work boots and work socks, leaving a trail as we scampered towards the bathroom. As I turned on the water, Steve was behind me, his hands on my nipples and his stiff cock rubbing my crack. We got into the shower, kissing and soaping each other’s bodies in the warm water, spraying water up each other’s arses. We wanked and sucked each other, cleaned our arses till they squeaked, and rinsed off until the trail of brown water, a day’s dust, had drained away. Steve turned his back on me, and reached for my cock, guiding it towards his hole. Below and above his arse he was tanned a colour something like teak, but his arse, which never saw sun, was white. He bent over and pulled his arse cheeks aside, and my cock head was pushing past the first ring and into the second ring. I paused, gripping him tightly, and then pushed right in up to the hilt. He gasped as my cock split his hole open. I began to pump, holding on to him, water spraying out of the shower on both of us. I was quite quick my first time, unable to hold back the spunk welling up in my cock, coming inside him. We stayed there for a while, warm water spraying us, and then I withdrew. We cleaned ourselves and dried off.

We went straight to bed, and so began my night with Steve. We flipped and flipped, taking it in turns to suck and fuck each other till well into the night, until I had drained Steve bone dry and he me. I fucked him a further five times, until his arse could take no more, and then we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Steve woke up first. We were spooning, my sticky sore cock standing up against his arse, my arm around his arm and chest, my fingers tugging at his nipple. He felt warm and slightly damp with sweat. I nuzzled up to his neck and kissed it.

“That’s nice,” he said, in the way that a cat would when it was purring.

“Your missus is going to want to know what happened,” I said.

He laughed: “She walked out a couple of years ago with a fat bloke who sells insurance. He isn’t remotely interested in football, and certainly not Millwall, but we do need to get up for work.”

“Then we can have a bit more fun later,” I grinned.

What I really wanted, though, was how to get hold of the other three, and I would fuck Steve until I knew where they were, but for now I had full use of this gorgeous man’s arse.