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Wife is out in public and out of control.

Their striker at the front of the queue got the hardest hits: he was first victim for us all, when we were most enthusiastic with our weaponry.

His panted screams drowned out by others as my first hit on his right buttock had him yelping and crying. He begged for mercy, my hand showed him little, sweeping the blue leather paddle against his tortured posterior.

I smiled knowingly at his cries as I moved onto their captain: a wiry defender who had made several mistakes during the match. His hands were screwed into fists: his bottom a bruised mess of abused skin. My paddle smashed against his purple haze of agony, my eardrums receipt of his blue words, screaming abuse at me.

The cold rain may have helped them cope; the audience of their fans, their wives and their girlfriends probably didn't. We had humiliated them, reduced them to blubbering wrecks with a few dozen short smacks of the exposed rumps with our BDSM implements.

The sadist in me loved it; I saved my hardest hits for the players who had been sent off: one of them for an awful tackle on myself. His bottom was already seeping: he screamed into the stadium as my first pelt smashed into his defenceless behind, bringing the fresh scarlet to the surface.

He begged for mercy; his fist banged into the bench as my furious hits bounced painfully off his rear.

Justice done.

Our last game before the Christmas break was a home game against Ramplington Rovers: a team heralding from a working-class area of the neighbouring city. The players were honest and fair, but ultra-competitive. They arrived in a brand-new minibus, sponsored by Wondermen Spa: a sauna for the liberal man!

They played in the league's change kit of all white: their royal blue shirts were too similar to our navy and gold kit. The all-male spa's logo adorned their pristine shirts as they took to the field: the cold, wintery air bit into our sensitive skin.

It was not a day to stay still: we all ran around the pitch to keep warm as both teams played with energy: flying tackles and desperate lunges were everywhere. Dmitri scored a sublime goal to open the scoring; they equalised after the break and scored a second after I slipped while clearing the ball to concede possession. Dmitri saved my blushes with a final-minute free-kick that whipped over the wall and nestled in the far corner.

We drew 2-2.

But whereas we had previously worked out that there was a perverse incentive for all players to play for a draw as it meant that there was no loser, the league had concluded the lacunae in their new rules was detrimental to the spirit of the game. They had published an addendum effective immediately. Our coach read it out to us in the changing room; we had only been involved in one draw before that day but other teams were playing to not lose, rather than to win and the league had acted.

From that day, when teams draw both captains and two other players from either side had to go into the opposition changing room to satisfy the other team. It left an element of jeopardy in the game and our captain looked around the changing room for volunteers.

"I'll go," I heard myself saying. My team-mates looked at me incredulously. "If I hadn't slipped for their second goal we'd have won."

"Yeah, I was at fault for their first," Connor, our left-back, admitted. "I'll go too."

Our team thanked us; we had slaps on the back as we left our changing room naked except for our golden socks, passing three nervous looking Ramplington Rovers players walking past us. "Well played guys." The captains shook hands as they passed each other, nodding respectfully.

Their door was ajar; the cries loud and boisterous. There was no losing team or winning team, but that made little difference: Ramplington had brought fifteen players and I had knew I would have four of them cumming inside me. It was the most I had ever taken in one sitting and my palms felt sweaty.

It was a lot of male arousal for one man to satisfy.

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