A football hooligan meets his match

I’m Darren. I’m twenty-five-years old, from the East End of London, and live on my own in a flat in Clapton. I am of average height, built like a brick shithouse, with hands like shovels. My head is shaved, and I am not the world’s best-looking man, being slightly pig-faced, and rather ugly. I am also quite hairy on my arms, legs, chest, back and arse, which makes me overall a bit scary. That’s before you take into account two tattoo sleeves and a load of other tats on the rest of me.

I work all day on a building site, outdoors in the open air, labouring. If you want bricks carried up a ladder in a hod, I’m your man. Three nights a week, Monday, Wednesday and Friday, I head for the gym and spend the evening powerlifting. That’s deadlifts, bench presses and squats, working up to between one hundred and fifty and two hundred kilos, together with a few other exercises such as pull-ups, dips and so on. I don’t waste my time doing feeble lifts. I also don’t do the vanity bit like some of the bodybuilders and muscle Marys, posing in front of the mirror. I am just big and I like it that way. Sculpted abs are not me: I have a gut like a strongman’s. Terrifying. On Sunday I do very little other than clean the flat and sort out laundry. On Tuesday nights, I usually watch football, either at the ground or on the TV, but on Saturday, match day, I always watch my team live and have a fight with the other lot’s fans afterwards. I love fighting, or at least a fair fight with some Scousers or Manc cunts, or best of all, Leeds fans or fans from Chelsea, Arsenal, Spurs or Millwall. I don’t fight fans just for the hell of it, because most of them go to watch the match. I go for the scrapping afterwards.

I don’t have a girlfriend because I am gay, and I don’t have a boyfriend because I don’t have time for one, and, in any case, I seem to attract soft, middle-class types who want a piece of rough (and I am as rough as a badger’s arse, even though I say it myself), whereas I want a piece of rough too. Okay, I’ll own up, before the stuff I am about to write about happened, I was also a virgin. I am too gay to fuck a woman, just can’t get excited about it, although I have tried, but too mixed up to fuck or be fucked by a bloke. That’s too gay for me, so I work, hump weights, fight at football matches and wank over some of the rough blokes I meet. I’d like to have sex with a bloke, but how do you meet one?

Anyway, we got drawn against Millwall in the cup. Now Millwall are a hard bunch. There is film footage of their old ground in the 1920s, and you can watch your great-grandad in his bowler hat kicking shit out of somebody else. Those dockers liked to get their pay packet and spend it on football and getting pissed, and you just hope there was enough left over to pay the rent and look after their families. I doubt they beat their wives as they were not the most charming of ladies and could probably fell you with a rolling-pin and then hook your cock up to a mangle. You don’t expect that kind of behaviour much before the Mods came off the beaches in the 1960s and started fighting at football grounds.

We also have a pecking order of teams where we scrap with the fans. Some, like the less successful London clubs such as Charlton or Brentford, are places where we go and watch football, though don’t fight unless trouble comes looking for us. Nobody’s going to get much kudos going into the Beehive at Brentford and making a nuisance of himself, but run in front of the Stretford End at Old Trafford and beat up a Manchester United fan and they’ll talk about you forever. Some of the other clubs, when in the top flight, you just go and watch. You might make a noise at Norwich or Ipswich, but you’ll come home in one piece. Apart from Portsmouth and Cardiff, where the fans like a fight, the rule is usually the further north you go, the worse it gets. It’s a shame we don’t play the Jocks in the league: a trip to Glasgow Rangers or Celtic would be the trigger for a civil war.

Millwall, though, are a London club, and maybe I was a bit too full of it when we played them. The previous Saturday we’d been up in Leeds, and we had set up a pitched battle with a Leeds firm. After a successful ruck I beat the shit out of one cunt who’d taken a swing at me with a knife. He would be spending quite a long time at the dentist’s after he’d finished in A&E, which would teach him for threatening me with a knife. The previous Tuesday was home to Arsenal, which was uneventful, no fighting. We had also won at home.

On Saturday, after getting up and shaving my head to the skin with a five-blade razor, I wanked off in the shower and got dressed in match day clothes. That’s a football shirt, and because I am traditional, a pair of jeans which barely fit as my thighs and calves are so muscled, with the bottoms rolled up over a pair of cherry-red Dr Martens boots. I then go and meet the lads in the pub, though I don’t drink myself. Something in alcohol makes me ill, and in any case drink and drugs don’t go with powerlifting. I watch them down pints as I drink coffee, but I still get hyped up. When we set off to the ground, I was still as high as a kite. We got to the ground in a herd, accompanied by a police cordon, with the Millwall fans jeering and abusing us, although nothing got thrown.

We got to our seats and began chanting. It was a warm day, so I was giving it large, waving my shirt, which I had taken off. I didn’t know that a small gang of Millwall fans had spotted me in the crowd, and wanted a bit more than a scrap.

The Den lives up to its name. After the match we were herded out again under police escort, and just about to make it to the underground station when a pack of fans broke the cordon. A fight was on, but at those odds I ran and ran. I didn’t know my way too well around that corner of London, and soon got lost. I was cornered by a gang of jeering, sneering Millwall fans, big lads who looked ready to kill me. I could not run, and making a stand wasn’t an option either. As it happened, the decision was made for me when a van pulled up and I was bundled, kicking and writhing, into the back, where a cloth drenched in chloroform was held over my nose and mouth and I passed out.

Millwall FC’s fans have probably the worst reputation for their behaviour in the whole football league, and this lot were gay as well. I had no idea when I woke up where I was, but I soon realised that I was lying on my back, bollock-naked, hooded and attached to some kind of X-shaped frame. The black hood smelled of clean leather, and although it fitted well, it was not too tight. There seemed to be holes for my eyes which were now covered with some kind of mask. There was a hole for my mouth, but it also seemed to be covered by something, and in any case, I was wearing a ball gag. Around my neck I could feel a collar, again, fitted, but not uncomfortable. Cuffs had been fitted around my wrists and ankles and chained to the frame. Of course, making a noise and a move alerted somebody, and I heard voices. I was lifted out of the X-frame and secured upright in the same X-shape. The X-frame was removed.

“Got you now, mate,” said somebody. The mask was removed. My eyes adjusted to the light. I was in some kind of disused industrial unit, and around me were four men. One was a young bloke about twenty stone in weight, wearing just a pair of football short and trainers, his massive white body covered in tattoos. He had a shaved head and huge hands. The second was about fifty, a muscular outdoors type, bald, surprisingly good-looking and dressed in a polo shirt and jeans. The third was a big, black lad in a tracksuit, and the fourth was in a Millwall shirt and jeans. He looked like he lifted weights.

“Now, mate,” said the second man, “here’s what’s going to happen. We are going to turn you into a little bitch and then take turns using every fucking hole in your body and you’re fucking going to like it.”

“Let me go, you cunts!” I shouted, which came out as “Mmmgrrrrchhhmmm!”

It was no good. The lad in the Millwall shirt took a pair of nipple clamps and with surgical precision attached them to my nipples, which of course sent a surge of pleasure across my chest and a signal to my cock to erect. My nipples are wired to my cock and it was now no point pretending to these lads that I wasn’t enjoying it. Millwall shirt grabbed my thickening cock and started wanking it gently.

“Like that, do you?” he said threateningly. I did. He adjusted the clamps slightly so that they hurt just a smidgen more, and then added small fishing weights. The pain was nothing compared to the pleasure. He now rubbed a small amount of lube around my balls, and fitted a leather strap around them which spread my nuts apart and exposed them. The outdoors guy came up and slapped my arse, hard.

“Nice,” he said. He took off his polo shirt and showed me a strong, neatly-muscled torso. His chest was covered in hair which formed a thick trail down the cleft in his abs. He looked strong. He picked up a flogger and took aim at my arse, striking it hard. I grimaced. He struck again, making me yelp and making the nipple weights fly up, tugging hard at my nipples. A spurt of pain and pleasure spread from my nipples to my treacherous cock, which was getting thicker again. The flogging carried on for a few minutes as he worked my arse, shoulders, belly, chest and thighs. I felt like I had been completely tenderised, like a piece of meat. They let me have a small break, then took me out of the X-frame and tied me down on my back, hands together behind me head, legs spread and cuffed at the ankles.

Tickling came next. I was helpless as they played with the soles of my feet, my ribs and my armpits, teasing me so that as they went to touch me, I flinched and tried to move away, which was hopeless as they had tied me up. Again, it was pleasure over agony, and every time I wriggled the nipple clamps and the weights pulled on my nipples, which sand with pain and pleasure.

What next? Two of them started shaving me. One ran a pair of clippers over my pubes to shorten them He covered the stubble in gel, rubbing it in to my ballbag and my inner thighs. He shaved me expertly, taking short up-and-down strokes on skin he pulled tight, pausing to clean the gel and shaved hairs off the razor. He was good: when I felt down there later on the whole lot was completely smooth, like the proverbial baby’s bottom. The other mowed the hair off my arms, chest, belly and legs with a big pair of clippers, and then cleared my pits with a smaller pair of clippers after drying the sweat off them. I was rolled on my front. The one with the big pair of clippers finished off my legs, my arse cheeks and my back. I felt cool air on me. The one with the 5-blade soaped up my arsehole, and began cleaning around my hole, and the back of my perineum and ballbag.

“You could your fucking dinner off that hole,” one said, and I was turned on my back again.

Millwall shirt started wanking my cock, spitting on it to lubricate the shaft, his finger just below the helmet and a billion nerve endings. I felt my cock thicken into full erection. He kept wanking it, whilst the fat lad squirted a dollop of lubricant on to the eye. He inserted a rod of metal down my urethra. I didn’t know then it was called sounding, but it felt strangely good. After a few minutes, the rods were taken out.

They kept the mask on, but I could feel pads of some kind being attached to my nipples. There was a humming noise. The buzzing felt good, sexy, even when it was turned up full and I writhed in total pleasure. The pads were attached to my cock, my arse, my bollocks and nipples again (I liked that the most) and turned up to full volume. I could barely take it. At the same time my bollocks were being tortured, at one point the older guy was smacking them with a ruler, and then they were whipped. I was in pleasurable agony.

The mask came off again, which meant they wanted me to see what happened next. I could suddenly smell burning candles, like I was in a church. The four of them were holding candles, and they took it in turns to drip hot molten wax on to me, aiming especially for my nipples. I wriggled and writhed as I saw the wax drip on to me, but the ball gag in my mouth constrained my cries. It didn’t hurt as much as I though it did, though. I was half expecting it to be like boiling water, but the calorific value of whatever isn’t there in wax. They covered my chest and tummy and bollocks in red wax, laughing as they did it. I was relieved now I’d been shaved, as the thought of having to pick bits of cold wax out of my pubes or chest hair was frightful. As it was, this lot would come off easily. They’d worked all this out.

I was now bundled into stocks. I knelt on a table and leaned forward, head and wrists being locked between two pieced of shaped wood. My calves and thighs were strapped down so that I could barely move. A man could stand behind me and fuck me, and I would offer no resistance. Another could get his cock in my mouth. They weren’t ready yet to fuck me, though.

“Cane, now,” said the older guy. “A big fucker like you needs to be taught a lesson.”

I wasn’t looking forward to that. Caning was something bent teachers did in boarding schools, where the kids were all privately buggered, working out their pervy lusts on young boys’ arses. Somehow, though, being caned and having to submit to everything these cunts did was all part of it. I was going to have to take it like a man. There wasn’t a lot I could do anyway. I was tied up so the only thing that could move was my knob and bollocks. The black bloke took the ball gag off me. He was naked himself now, and when he came round all I could look at was his big knob flopping over his big balls. He fitted another gag, with a thick rubber mouthpiece which I could bite if the pain was too much.

The older guy put his hand on my arse cheeks and gently stroked the skin.

“Twelve strokes,” he said,” coming up.”

He too was now naked, and fucking gorgeous. He came round to my front to check that the gag was in place and I got an eyeful of a hairy six-pack and a whopping cock hanging over big hairy bollocks. If I was going to get twelve strokes, it had to be from him, and he proved to be something of an expert, accurately landing each stroke with the same whippy force on a fresh piece of unmarked skin, so that at the end I had six parallel stripes on each buttock, each a tender weal which would cause me discomfort for days. I bit the rubber to deal with the intense pain. As each stroke landed the others cheered. He delivered six from the right-hand side and then six from the left-hand side, with a delay between each stroke of ten seconds, metronomic in its execution. I was on fire and close to tears. I was completely broken: they could do what they want with me.

They still weren’t ready to fuck me. The four of them now took it in turns to piss on me, two on my head and two on my arse, which stung as the urine hit my fresh wounds. The headshot was done by the fat lad and the muscled lad, each jetting a stream of piss over my bald head and my face, slowly and carefully manoeuvring the stream until they had finished and the stuff was dripping off me. My arse got full blast from the black guy and the older guy, who must have drunk five pints of coffee the way he hosed my arse down. Now what?

It was time for the toys. Each seemed to take it turn to fill my hole with lube and open it up with a dildo. The older guy probed my hole with a beefy thumb, then inserted a small butt plug, which opened me up. It felt comfortable and pleasant inside me. The black guy took out the plug, and lubed me up some more: a bigger plug went in. He worked that round for a bit until it felt comfortable. They worked up from a four-inch butt plug about an inch across to a massive ten-inch dildo about two inches across, which the fat boy took great delight in pushing into me. I grimaced and writhed as it broke through both sphincters, rubbed my prostate, and felt as if it was going to come out of my stomach, but once in, it felt good and tight. It was left there for a few minutes, and then removed.

“He’s opening up,” said the fat boy. “Nice and wide.”

I felt a big dildo being pushed into my greasy hole, but could not see that it was on the end of a long rod which was attached to a fucking machine.

“Start it up,” said the older guy. I felt the huge dildo enter me and then withdraw, slowly at first, filling me up. After a minute, the speed was increased, to something like fucking speed. Now I knew why I was tied up so tightly, as it was to avoid any problems if I moved around. I had been reduced just to a slippery hole into which the dildo was thrusting. It felt good. I succumbed to the rhythm, and moaned as I felt the dildo start to work my prostate gland. The speed was increased: I started to sweat and I started to fear being torn apart by the machine. The speed went up again, until I started to cry out. I was holding on for grim death. Suddenly, the fucking machine was stopped and the dildo withdrawn. It felt hot and slippery. My arsehole felt used rather, than sore.

The fat boy looked at my hole again.

“It’s like a fucking tunnel now,” he laughed. “Perfect for fucking!”

Finally, they fucked me. The fat lad fucked me first. For his size he was fit, and I thought he would have a small cock, but when it went in my slippery hole it felt fucking big. He rested his tummy on my arse and those big buttocks began to pump. I felt his colossal rough hands on me, one pulling hard at my nipple, the other exploring my cock and balls, and then both taking hold of my hips. He was a strong fucker, and there was the power of a train behind his cock. Well, it wasn’t how I had fantasised about finally losing my cherry, but he was a fantastic fucker. Just after he started, the black guy took of the ball gag and began pushing his cock, which was a beautiful dark brown pole of flesh with a lovely helmet and no foreskin, into my mouth.

“Fucking suck that, you big cunt,” he ordered, holding my head, and I did. It tasted good. He didn’t realise he was pushing at an open door, I don’t suppose, and I looked forward to having that dick up my arse.

I was getting it in both holes, and the fat lad was pushing his cock into me like an express train now, and slapping my arse hard. I could feel his cock pounding away on my prostrate and felt spunk building up inside me, and I knew if he carried on any longer, I would explode. I gasped, and the sudden rush of air made the black guy hold my head down harder over his throbbing cock. I gagged. Just then, I felt the fat lad reach his climax, heard him crying out, felt his big hands one last time slapping me, and then felt a rush of spunk and pleasure in my own cock, and I was squirting everywhere. I made a stifled noise as that lovely black cock also spunked in me, and I swallowed a mouthful of salty cum. They then swapped over, so the black lad could fuck me, and it was a treat to feel his big long pole gliding into my hole, whilst I was force-fed the fat lad’s fucking enormous cock. I thought fatties usually had tiddlers, but this young lad had a long, thick, veiny, gnarled knob which I couldn’t wait to suck. I was making such happy noises when I felt the vein at the front twitch, and seconds later my mouth was hosed down with lovely south London cum. I licked every drop off his dick, and then felt the black lad come as well. A surge of pleasure rose up through my arse, and I suddenly shot my own load. This was good, very good!

The other two were next up. The older guy was sporting a hard-on that looked about eight inches long. He waved it under my eyes, and then walked round to my rear and started to push it into my hole, which was now not resisting. Millwall shirt was now naked, and a big thick tool was in his hands, being pushed in my face. I sucked it willingly, moving it around my mouth, taking pleasure if its feel and shape, yearning for when he would start to face-fuck me. The older guy added another dollop of lube to my hole and thrust his cock into me, but I was now so loose that it just felt good. He fucked me like he had wanted to fuck me for years, and I loved the way his big bollocks swung and bounced off me. Soon both were fucking me, and both came about the same time, and I swallowed another load of hooligan spunk, taking care to lick the lad’s cock clean. Like the others, they swapped round after a short break, and I finally got to suck the older guy’s superb knob as the strong lad gave my arse the last pounding of the session.

They had broken me in completely. The big lad who lifted weights apologised for what he was about to, and punched me in the eye.

“You’ve gotta look like you’ve been in a ruck, mate,” he said, “so sorry about the shiner. You’re a great fuck, by the way.”

I was chloroformed again and dumped in the street, dressed.

I got back to my flat late, and inside I yanked off the DMs and then stripped. I left my clothes in the hallway. I was a fucking mess. Apart from my eyebrows, I didn’t have a single hair on me, and I was covered in bits of wax down my front, and the bastards had tattooed my glowing striped arse with a fucking Millwall badge and then covered it in clingfilm. I took a long shower and cleaned off the wax: I had a fucking hard on like I’d never had before, so I wanked off in the shower and let the water run down my sore arse. I dried off, picked all of the bits out of the plughole, and rubbed Savlon into my arse cheeks. I fucking hurt. My eye was black. My jaw was sore from having to open up to all those big cocks. My tits were singing and kept on sticking up in the air. My chest and tummy were red from where the wax had been dropped. My back was still stinging from the flogging. My arse was throbbing and looked like the arse of a zebra. My arsehole felt on fire and I was dreading having a shit. My cock was sore from being emptied five times that day, but wouldn’t go down, and my balls were hurting from the torture. I was going to have to spend Sunday in the nude, upright or on my front, or maybe just sitting on a bowl of ice, recovering, and on Monday I was going to have to wear the loosest shorts possible and keep my arse covered in cream.

I was in heaven.

One consolation was that, in the last minute of play, Millwall, who had been down a goal since the thirtieth minute, scored with a long shot. The game was drawn, as was the replay. I was going back to the Den and I hoped to fuck I’d meet this crew again.