Girl on the Net

Now listen. I know that what I should be doing tonight is cheering on the England team, and I totally will be. But as we get ready for kickoff there are some people watching the match who can’t keep their brain from wandering to one specific fantasy. I say ‘some people’ because conversations with other horny fuckers confirms that I’m not the only one. There may be five of us, ten of us, or ten thousand of us, but make no mistake there are some of us: people who are thinking less about the score than we are about the changing rooms. Specifically, what it would be like to be the changing room slut.

Before I begin, let me state for the record that I am not here to ruin your joy of football. If horny fantasies are likely to do that, look away now and go enjoy the match. It’s also not written with any particular team/players in mind, because I think the England team seem like a lovely bunch of dudes and I would cringe my face off to write literal named slashfic about real live people. Oh! And while we’re applying our imaginations, know that it doesn’t have to be football – pick any team sport and away you go. 

Who is the Changing Room Slut?

The changing room slut is chosen by lottery. Those who want to put themselves forward drop their names into a digital hat, and two nights before the match, the selection takes place. The changing room slut might be a fan, or just be a horny bystander with a passing interest in football – the kind of passing interest that sees a field full of sweaty, sweaty men and wants to lick each and every one of them.

The changing room slut is never seen by the crowds in the stadium. They are ushered in via back routes, shown where the showers and lockers are, and given strict instructions not to speak to the players. Wouldn’t want to distract them from their important work.

Pre-match, the changing room slut listens in to the pep-talk the manager gives, and during play they listen eagerly for the sounds of cheering around the pitch. During half-time, the changing room slut gets a feel for how the match is going.

No matter what the outcome, the changing room slut will end every match the same way: naked and on their knees in the middle of the dressing room, waiting for the team to return. But they will not know exactly what part they must play until the final whistle blows.

Win or lose? Glory or defeat?

The changing room slut: win

If it’s a win, and the mood is one of celebration, the changing room slut is there as a party favour. Players roar into the changing room happily – elated and overjoyed and ready to let loose.

The changing room slut is waiting.

Naked, kneeling, mouth open and willing, their eyes sparkle with delight – pride in the team and honour in themselves. Eager get to be the catalyst for what comes next.

As a few team members strip off their sweat-drenched shirts, someone pops a cork and the spray splatters everywhere. Mouth open, the changing room slut catches a few drops before being lifted on the shoulders of the team captain. A cheer goes up, the room lets loose, and suddenly the party is underway.

When the team wins, the changing room slut gets passed around like so much champagne. First to the captain, who spreads their legs wide, plunging his dick into the most tempting hole as teammates gather round. Slapping, touching, grabbing, pinching, high-fiving. Conspiratorial grins are exchanged, and slick fingers grip sweat-drenched skin.

Turns are sometimes taken, at least at the start. A ‘go on, you go, you deserve it’ to the MVP and anyone else who scored or excelled or simply wants to party. But no one wants this particular party to end, so after a short burst of vigorous celebratory thrusting they pull out, swap round. Nip back to where the bottles of champagne stand, and take a good long swig as their teammates take over – fucking and touching and grabbing and slapping.

When everyone’s had a turn, it turns into more of a free-for-all. You put your cock wherever you like, whenever you like. The changing room slut is up for anything. More than that: they want everything. That’s why they signed up. That’s the beauty of being used not just by a group of men but by a team.

The match is won or lost through teamwork, and the team has won. Now the changing room slut gets to find out what teamwork can do when applied to their utter degradation.

The team has won, and the thrill of it still tingles in their veins. The changing room slut is there to enhance and celebrate that victory. A toy with which the team plays to cement their glory.

To be their victory.

To drown in it.

If you liked this story you might also enjoy this other one about getting fucked by a bachelor party. 

The changing room slut: lose

If defeat is the order of the day, the changing room slut’s role looks very different indeed. Instead of a party atmosphere, the stench of misery hangs in the air as the lads troop in from play. Their shoulders droop, their eyes are downcast, and they need someone on whom they can take out their frustration.

The changing room slut is waiting.

There’s an unspoken rule about who gets to go first – whichever player most needs the release. Perhaps he missed a penalty, or was on the receiving end of an unfair call. Whatever the reason, the first player grabs the waistband of his sweaty, sweaty shorts and rubs at his half-mast erection until it’s passably hard. With an air of dismissive impatience, he shoves it into the changing room slut’s welcoming mouth.

Pushing his cock right to the back, until they start to gag on it slightly, the MDP (most disappointed player) stares blankly into the distance, perhaps even closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to meet the eyes of the rest of the team, not until he’s done what he needs. Thrusting slowly, then harder, his dick throbs into a firmer, tauter erection. The changing room slut slurps hungrily at it, all spit and wide lips and eagerness-to-please.

The slut is here because they like taking direction, so when the player grabs their head in both hands, the slut responds swiftly – adjusting their speed and angle to get the perfect sensation for this functional, comforting suck-job.

The other players shuffle dejectedly around, stripping off their own sweaty kits and waiting their turn, as their colleague does his business. It’s purposeful – there is no celebration about it. He grunts occasionally, involuntarily. There is no joy in it, only need.

When he gets close to coming, he lets go the rest of his pain – shoving his dick so hard down the changing room slut’s throat that they can’t help but gag on the copious spurts of cum. One more grunt, and done.

The player withdraws, never making eye contact with the changing room slut – only wiping his cock with a nearby towel, and nodding to the next in line: your turn.

The team has lost, and the changing room slut is there only to soften the blow of defeat. To be a receptacle for all their frustration.

To swallow their loss.

To drown in it.

If you liked this story, you might also enjoy this piece about facefucking someone at the end of a long, hard day.