United

In 2034 football remains the sport of the people.  Despite the fact that the game has changed beyond all recognition since the early years of the twenty first century, the game is still revered by the fans and the media.

Gone are the days of multi million pound contracts and transfers.  Contracts and transfers no longer exist.  Players are of course unpaid, and once they are with a club, then there they will stay.  Literally marked as a player for life.  Gone are the superstar lifestyles of players of course.  Gone are the sponsorship deals and the wives who courted celebrity with their husband’s fame.  The players are now mere entertainment value for the crowds, the real winners in modern football.  Now the stadiums are designed for crowd comfort as all money is placed back for the benefit of the fans.

Welcome to Old Trafford.  Home of the Premier League Champions 2033.  Today is a big game for the fans, as United play their rivals from London, Arsenal.  It is two hours from kick off, and the fans are beginning to arrive at the stadium.

Deep below the pitch, it is time for the players to start their preparation.  A light flicks on in the storage room beneath the pitch and the trainers enter the cool room, ready to begin the pre-match training programme.  Around the edges of the room, the players stir.  Aware that their trainers have entered the room they prepare to be released from storage.  Their aching, honed torsos and muscles prepare to face battle.

The United players flex their muscles and stare at their trainers, their muscles straining against their bonds, and their eyes pleading for release.  With a quick security code the laser beams are released and the weary players slump forward from their imprisonment against the walls and kneel on the cold floor.  After a nod from their trainer, the players remove their mouth bits and stretch their tongues for the first time on match day.  None of them speak.  None are able to speak any more.

The trainers type in a further code and the air is filled with the sounds of 14 young men releasing their large metal butt plugs from their anal chutes.  United are proud of their team spirit and the trainers smile as they watch the players pass their butt plug to the player on their right.  Silently and diligently, each player licks clean the juices of his team mate from the plug and places it against the wall behind him for re-insertion after the game.

On command, the players rise and place their hands behind their stubbled heads.  Each slave faces forward, shaved chests flexed and displaying their team number etched in black between their powerful pecs.  A permanent reminder that they are the property of their football club and a reminder of their purpose in life as a form of entertainment.  No longer a man.  No longer free.

Slave number 3 closes his eyes momentarily in despair at his predicament.  The oldest slave on the team, he still remembers the time when he was free and a man.  A wealthy footballer with all the trappings that the game brought a young man of extreme talent.  He remembers when he spent the morning before a game driving to the game in his sports car, dressed in expensive clothes like a man.  Looking down at the fans as he passed them in the street.  The same fans who now own his body.  All of it.  Forever.

He remembers the team kit, the camaraderie with his team mates.  The feeling of being a pampered star and an idol to the fans.  How he yearns for a return to such freedom, as he stands stark naked, his abused arse twitching as it is free from its plug until this evening.  Forbidden to speak, now owned property and the property of his club.

Slave number 3 used to be called Tommy.  Now it seems absurd to think of having a name.  He isn’t human any more.  He looks into the sad eyes of the muscular black slave opposite him, the number 7 etched in his shaved body, legs apart and penis on display.  The youngster doesn’t even have a name, and Tommy never has the opportunity to discuss his past, and what made him into a slave player.  Speaking is for human beings, not slaves.  The permanent mouth guard welded around his teeth prevents any form of speech between the slave players, contorting slightly the handsome feature of each perfectly formed young hunk of meat in the room.

****

It is kick off time.  The United players have finished listening to the instructions of their Master Trainer and are ready to enter the stadium.  Slowly, each one rises from their seat, releasing the greased dildo that has pumped their body with vitamins and energy for the contest ahead.  Each slave player moves towards the tunnel and lines up.  The sound of the stadium ringing in his ears as he prepares to display himself to the crowd.  Ahead, the steward stands with whip in hand as each team captain stands at the head of his team.  Twenty two naked bodies quiver in anticipation of running out before over seventy thousand free people.  Each one of the players was once a free man, once a spectator himself.  Before he was purchased by the club.  Now he stood naked, quivering slightly in the cold Autumn air.  He feels the cold against his shaved torso, the air nipping the slab of meat above his cock, where once he was allowed pubic hair.  Naked as the day he was born, except for the large black numbers, the permanently coloured lower half of his legs and the similarly coloured penis.  Penis and lower legs permanently coloured in team colours to mark him as owned property.

The fanfare sounds.  With a crack of the steward’s whip, the players run onto the pitch as the crowd stand and roar.  The damp grass beneath each player’s bare feet shivers as a gust of autumnal wind shoots across the pitch.  Each player shudders as he sprints into position, penis thudding against his muscular thighs.  He remembers the warning of their Master Trainer and begs that tonight he will be locked away victorious.  He has grown accustomed to the regular serving as a naked waiter at the postmatch meal for sponsors and supporters.  He has grown accustomed to being selected as fuckmeat for anyone with the money to buy his body for an hour.  But he can never grow accustomed to the whipping and torture that he receives after a defeat.  As he stretches his naked torso in front of thousands of spectators, he steels his mind to win.  For his team.  For his owners.  United.

“United”.  Follow up Chapter.

Greg Matthews was 35 years old.  His body was no longer lean and muscular, a paunch and a balding patch the first onset of advancing years.  Greg was a confirmed bachelor, never having found a woman who wanted to fit in with his obsession.  Greg had always supported United.  From a small kid it had been his passion.  His number one love in life.  He had supported them home and away, and his house was a shrine to the football club that he supported.

It had taken Greg a long time to collect the countless memorabilia that declared his love for his team.  United.  His personal collection of United memories was his pride and joy.  Greg kept a room in his house dedicated to his football club, and liked to think of it as his museum.  The room was stuffed full of old programmes, old pictures, signed balls and pennants, and a large collection of DVDs of memorable games.  Memorable occasions when he had revelled in the glory of being a United supporter.

It was Saturday evening.  Greg sat alone in front of his DVD player, and inserted the DVD.  He settled down and prepared to re-live the night five years ago when United had tasted European glory.  The night when United had won the European Champions League.  They had come back from 2-0 down against the German champions Bayern Munich to snatch the game 3-2 in extra time.  Greg had celebrated long and hard that night, in this very room.  Unable to afford the expense of a trip to Barcelona, Greg had watched David Beckton, United’s number 7, score the winning goal and had worshipped the player as his hero. 

How fitting and sweet it seemed to Greg now that – against all of the odds – he had won the club’s lottery last year.  Greg had managed to obtain a prized possession that completed his collection and made his life complete.  The ultimate United piece of memorabilia.

Greg leant back in his favourite leather armchair, in front of the massive TV screen that adorned one wall of his personal United museum.  He watched the game in peace, beer in hand.

“2-0 down, United are going to have to produce something special if they are to win this trophy now….”

Greg raised his feet off the sweating back of the boy crouched semi-naked at his feet, in front of him on the floor.  “Beer,” he said, not taking his eyes from the TV screen.

The sound of football studs rang off the wooden floor as the boy hauled himself to his feet and stumbled to Greg’s home made bar, decked out in United red in the corner of the room.  Greg watched him from behind, his muscular body still displaying his athleticism, but betraying what he once was.  His trademark blond hair still framing the beautiful face of a once-sought-after jockboy.  Dressed only in united socks, football boots, United top and a soiled jockstrap, he drew a pint into the frost-coated pint glass for his owner.  His bare arse on display as he worked.  Silently and quickly.

He dropped to his knees when he returned and kept his gaze to the floor as he held the beer out to Greg in upraised hands.

“…An amazing piece of skill there from David Beckton.  What a pass through the middle there to set up that goal.  United are back in the game at 2-1 now.  Can they win it?”

Greg chuckled to himself.  “Of course they can…” he laughed.  And without taking his eyes away from the action, he took the glass from the boy’s outstretched hands.

“Mouth.”

The boy tipped his head back, eyes blurry with exhaustion, and let his mouth fall open.  Greg cracked him across the face, nearly knocking him backwards across the wooden floor.

“Mouth, fucker.”

Hurriedly, silently, fear etched on his handsome face, he opened up properly, mouth stretched open as far as he could hinge his chiselled jaw, tongue resting over his bottom teeth.  Greg stared at him, and slowly unzipped his trousers.  Without needing to be told, the boy hunkered down as low as he could get and prepared for his inevitable fate.  Greg leant forward, beer in hand and eyes on the television, and laid his unwashed cock on the boy’s tongue.  With a sigh, he continued to watch the game.

“This is going into extra time.  Beckton is having the game of his life and – if United are to go on and win this game – they will owe a lot to this young England star.”

Greg could feel the boy start to tremble under the strain of the posture that he was being forced to keep.  His muscular quads must have been on fire as he squatted before his owner, his football boots skidding slightly across the smooth surface of the floor.  His tongue quivered with the effort of suppressing his gag reflex.  He knew he was not allowed to move or make any noise.  Only his breath gusted through his nose in laboured snorts.  His breath ruffling Greg’s pubic hair as he concentrated on controlling his breathing.  He didn’t dare breathe through his mouth.

“3 minutes left in extra time.  Both teams level.  Can United win this game in the dying minutes?”

Greg looked down at the handsome face cradling his cock.  He looked at the sweat-tangled white-blond hair falling into one eye, the masculine features contorted.  He smiled as he noticed the skin at the left corner of his mouth starting to crack as he struggled mightily to open his mouth even wider.

Greg smiled smugly as the key moment approached.  Life didn’t get any better than this for Greg.  He let loose his bladder, contracting his lower abs to spray the piss out in a hard, forceful jet.  Below him, he heard the cough and splutter of the helpless boy as the acrid stream blasted the back of his throat.

“Amazing!  David Beckton has scored the winning goal with 2 minutes left on the clock.  David Beckton is United’s hero.  This young man is set to become United and England’s biggest hero.  He deserves every accolade …”

As hard as he tried, there was no way that he could swallow effectively with his mouth and neck at this rigid angle.  His mouth overbrimming with his owner’s piss, it all came pouring back out.  It ran over the neatly trimmed beard down his chiselled jaw – kept as it was five years ago – and down his neck.  It ran down the front of his dirty United jersey.  The very jersey he had worn five years ago in that famous game.  The jersey that he wore permanently now.

He felt the warm piss soak down his chest and abs, and down onto the jockstrap that cupped his now shaved genitals.  He heard the steady drip as the piss pooled between his straining legs.

Greg felt the shudder that ran through the slave’s body.  He imagined that the slave could feel Greg’s piss trickling into the cup beneath his jock strap.  The cup that was locked in place, encasing his cramped genitals that were now no doubt soaked in his owner’s piss.  The very genitals that were never allowed release from their own cramped prison.

Greg smiled at the pool of piss between the slave’s shining football boots.  No matter.  It would be his job to lap it up anyway, scraping his tongue raw on the wood.  Greg felt his lower jaw stiffen, then shake as he began to sob uncontrollably.  Tears rolling down his handsome face as he listened on the television to what he had once been.  Before his club had sold him into a life of slavery for the benefit of profit.  Before he had been sentenced to a life of abject misery as an object in this cruel man’s museum.  A living toilet.

Greg stepped back as the flow of urine slacked off, and quivering lips closed reluctantly – obediently, as he had been taught – around Greg’s cock.  He sucked gently, choking a bit as Greg pulsed out the last few ounces.  He gagged it down and kept sucking, bathing Greg’s cock with his tongue as it swelled in the boy’s mouth.

The twenty-seven year old ex-footballer cried like the helpless boy that he had become, silently now, tears washing across the angry red handprint developing on his pale skin.  Greg looked at the face on the television – the suntanned happiness of David Beckton blasted across his widescreen TV.  He looked down at the piss stained specimen at his feet and smiled in contentment.  The suntan had long disappeared, after a lifetime now spent locked in a glass specimen case when not serving his owner.

Greg drank down the last of his beer as he watched United lift the cup.  Taking his slave’s matted hair in his hands, he twisted the hair on his scalp tight within his fists.  Greg sighed in happiness as he pounded the boy’s face.  For such a hero in European footballing history, David was one hell of a cocksucker now.