Her hair fluttered in the wind as the naked woman streaked across the stadium. Her right arm held tight across her bare breasts, the other hiding her shaved slit in vain. She was sexy; the crowd screaming delight as the cheerleaders were stripped one by one and decorated in splodges of orange bodypaint – the colour of the victorious team.
Our colours. Our team.
They shrieked as their slow movement across the sodden ground drew clumps of mud from the boggy pitch into the air. Her calves were splattered with brown drops, her feet as dark as the sky above.
But she was running to me; man of the match always got the first pick of the girls and I had chosen her. Cheering for our nemesis was a sin that would yield punishment on her shivering behind. It was part of our reward for winning the game.
The crowd expected it. They wanted to see warriors competing, and the ravishing of the women was part of the game. The wind swirling through the open stadium whistled over the hairs on the back of my neck, as nerves fluttered in my stomach.
Going first was always a responsibility. Last month, the Falcons' goalkeeper struggled to perform after his three penalty saves denied the Harriers. While the crowd waited for the Harriers cheerleader to be violated and she waited for the devouring of her luscious maidenhood, his erection withered. Unable to meet the pressure of expectation. She stood, naked in the rain, howling abuse at him, as her lust went unsated. He shrank in despair as he went from hero of the hour to the butt of everyone's jokes. "Do a Falcon" is now slang for sexual inadequacy. It's cruel, I know. So very cruel.
But going first was a responsibility I relished. She look so insignificant compared to the storm brewing overhead. Her eyes were soaked in anticipation, the crowd baying for her legs to be parted. They demanded a show and the football was only one part of it. They came to see the spectacle of a rampaging sports team having fun on and off the field. They wanted to see debauchery and desire, fight and fucking. They lived for the raw passion.
And I was going to give it to the paying fans. My paying fans. She approached the small stage at the front of the stand tentatively. She was new, I had not seen her at previous games, and she did not know me; the rules stated I could do what I wanted from a smorgasbord of sinful delights. From the first touch to the last could be no more than twenty minutes. We got anal in cup finals, oral only in friendlies.
She exhaled the moment my hand grabbed hold of her wrists. Her legs parted the moment I pushed her onto the soft wedge, sliding my hands up her mud-splattered calves.
Her velvety skin was lined with a film of sweat, punctuated with orange paint and filthy dirt. A warming spank across her backsides tensed her muscles, another had her groaning. She was so vulnerable, captivated by apprehension. Her body was shivering with anticipation: she knew she was there to be fucked: defiled in front of the watching men who she had loyally supported and whose failure was the cause of her predicament. They were a few feet away.
Maybe it was her brother who played for the losers, maybe her boyfriend, but they were forced to endure the sight of their women taken by the better men.
