|
The following story is disgusting. Warning: stop
reading if your bath towel is spotless. This yarn is strictly for men who drench
bath towels in the grease of lewd adventures. Garbage Field Games
Event
number one: Tonight’s football game is hard-boiled. Devin,
our coach, wipes his nose snot on Carl’s green shorts. “We shoot
our wads tonight. The garbage workmen promise us fun. It will be as terminal
as we wish to make it. Alone. Man to Man. Absolutely no interference or
concern about outsiders. At the garbage tip. The compact truck will destroy
all evidence and casualties.” We run
two miles along the road to the tip. It’s fenced in. A worker lets us into
the dressing sheds then double padlocks the side gate. Devin orders a gear
change. We discard thirty-one jocks, shirts and head gear for football boots
and green shorts. We
suspect the contest is foul play. The garbage worker directs us through a
muddy paddock to the football ground. The mud covers everybody’s boots. We
walk beyond a rubbish mound, step through a crude doorway. Thirty garbage
workmen await us in this garbage dump. Somebody puts a ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ sign
on the door, slams it. Garbage workmen laugh boisterously. “The
name’s Corey. Garbage coach. Welcome.” Thunderous clapping. “Warm
up is a brisk walk together.” Corey yodels. “Getting to kill you...Did you
hear what I said? Whistle blows. Sprint. Whistle blows. Walk. Fuck and
fucking kill players...Understand?” The
football training field is rousing. It’s completely encircled by stinking
garbage. Whatever your action, including eliminating players, all will be smothered
by garbage. Lighting
spotlights beam from portable generators rather than electricity. Near
me the goalposts are big drums which are tall enough to dump men into. What’s
inside? oil, slime? Whistle blows. Sprint. Elmer bumps into a barrel.
Why is this barrel in the training area? What’s inside? Elmer samples the
goo. Thick industrial grease! Elmer’s cock responds. Whistle blows. We walk
past lots of barrels. Strange. Paint brushes. Whistle blows. Sprint.
“Stop
over here. Drop your shorts. Raise shorts above your heads.” The
garbage workers’ shorts are clearly dirty and smelly. Corey
says. “Whistle when you walk past an erect cock!” “Wow!”
Brandon dips his right arm into a barrel. Sticky, thick, black grease. “Watch
me smear hairy chests.” Three garbage workers whistle at Brandon . Everybody
follows. Corey
says. “It’s time to put your shorts back on. For a short while.” Sniggers.
“Don’t worry if you lose them. There are only sixty-one men to fuck you.”
Players grunt, spit. “Play a fucking grease ball like this. Fuck the nearest
greasy arse. Play the ball. When you drop it, ball greasers will soak the
football in the nearest grease barrel. The garbage workers collected these
barrels for mutual use now from the tip. The industrial grease, oil and slime
will lubricate your cocks for pre-terminal fucking. Remember to steer your
cock up an arsehole.” Corey
dumped the football into a barrel full of slime. He raised the football above
his head. The slime oozed down his hairy chest. It started to turn him on. He
blew the whistle, threw the ball hard into the scrum. The slimy football
splashed two chests. Sixty-two men about to wallow in and swallow grease! The
garbage workers won the football in the first scrum. We chased the ball about
fifty yards. The first garbage worker caught was cocky. We pulled down
his shorts. We dragged him across to a drum barrel. The smell intoxicated us.
We plunged our arms into the thick lubricant, scooped out massive handfuls
and then slapped it onto his body. His balls froze. The erect cock saluted
the ooze. He looked great beside the drum. In the absence of garbage workers
to his rescue, we knocked him in the groin with our knees. After he buckled
up, we kicked him onto the ground, took turns in stomping. The
garbage workers held the football for the next few plays. Our goal keeper
tried to halt their goal. He tripped on a booby trap, plunged head first into
a submerged drum of green garbage cocktail grease. His shorts became heavier
with the weight of the grease. The umpire gave him a towel to wipe his face.
The grease stayed in his scalp of hair. He became disorientated. Two garbage
workers took him away for special handling. We replaced goal keepers.
It was
pleasing when we scored goals at the other end of the field. At one point a
penalty kick boosted our total score. The garbage workers ignored the score
and played viciously. They isolated our players, moved in as a pack, and
greased them totally with the potent mixes in the drum barrels. We
realised about ten of us were already drenched in garbage greases and
lubricants. Another ten garbage workers scuffled in distant grease traps. The
competitors were so smothered in grease it was difficult to figure out who
was fucking who up the arse. In
fact about thirty players terminally greased each another during playtime. Six
players swallowed grease, spewed up over each other. Other foes simply lost
their bearings in the quagmire. Determined players helped them lose their
breath. Energetic sportsmen dunked the unwary into drum barrels. Preferably
upside down with legs and feet emerging out of the goo. A kill took anxious
minutes for an ardent choke and smother. Whilst the mouth gasped for breath,
it swallowed the thick poison. The shorts came off easily. Lubricated arms
plunged deep into arseholes for a final fist fuck, proven safe sex. Corey
blew the whistle. Half time. Fifteen all. We reversed positions on the field. Unforeseenly we fought tiredness. The fumes choked our breath.
The greases felt cold and clammy. Devin egged on a competitor with an
exuberant hard-on. The football itself collected a variety of greases mostly
green, grey and black. Three
whistle toots. The game recommenced. This
time we concentrated on trapping the garbage workers. We lifted three of them
into drum barrels. The goo improved their appearance. Their shorts fell down
to their ankles in their hast to scramble over the drum barrel. Their three
cocks looked rock solid behind the goo. The smell was repugnant to some,
attractive to other men. We fucked the arse off them. Then we dunked them
fatally.
The
mystery of the paint brushes was resolved towards the end the game play. The
garbage workers spreadeagled four of us between goal posts. The garbage
workers dipped the paint brushes into a variety of goo, spread it across our
chests, and double dipped for thickness across hairy chests. They ripped the
shorts down, finished off the grease application. Then they fucked the four
arses with greasy cocks. Devin vs Corey. They dropped their shorts spontaneously. Naked
flesh. Coach vs Coach. We formed a tight circle,
crossed arms, closed the gaps slowly. Sweating men plunged into grease vats.
Corey attacked. Devin evaded Corey for a minute. Corey plunged his cock
up Devin’s arse, gripped his torso and fucked for a full five minutes. Devin
found the public fucking in front of his players humiliating. “Finish
me off!” We
targeted both men. Instead of a painless release, we hauled both of them
above our shoulders, strode across to the deepest drum barrels. Maybe they
sanction a slow dunk. We chucked them upside down, head first into the
grease. We gripped the four feet. When they kicked for air, we kept the
pressure on. The effort was a valiant last gasp. The immersion shut them up. Every
surviving player shut his trap, quietly picked up a cleaning rag on the
garbage football field. A handful of participants pulled their greasy cocks
off. Others pissed over bodies. We
wondered when and what other terminal games would be planned in the garbage
field. Presumably we will be invited back. That’s if, if we get out of here
alive tonight.
The
second combat ball incident was conducted with players stripped down to a
pair of shorts and boots. The round soccer ball was dropped into grease
buckets as part of the game. The objective of the combat was to pass the
soccer ball and score a goal; along the way players’ chests were greased when
they held the ball; when players pulled down shorts the cocks and balls were
fully greased. Some players were dumped upside down in bigger grease
containers. The legs, balls and cocks were raised above the grease level.
This permitted manhandling and in some cases the sadistic crushing of balls.
After this sadistic treat the targets were fully dumped. The
umpire Luis in the grease game had a striking hairless bare chest with a
whistle on a lead around his neck. I pounded his head with the greased soccer
ball. The grease ran down his face and partly blocked his vision. I pulled
down his shorts, scooped up a fresh handful of grease and whacked the grease
all over his cock and balls. Two players pinned him from behind. This was
very helpful for me. The umpire Luis was unable to resist my thorough
greasing of his chest. I tried to retrieve the whistle but it was stuck
around his neck. The players asked me to pull the greased cock. To my
surprise the cock was erect. ‘Alright
Mr. Umpire Luis. I’m going to pull your cock like you have never felt
before.’ By now
both my hand and the erect cock was smothered in thick grease. I guess it was
industrial grease, possibly mechanical as used by the Tanks. One of the
players pinning him down from behind lowered his right hand onto the cock,
pushed my hand aside and pulled hard. The umpire Luis gasped and allowed his
cock to spurt over me. I expected that we would terminate the umpire Luis by
dumping him upside down in a big grease container. This was not the case. The
two players each positioned a hand around his neck and slowly strangled him.
The unexpected attacks came from two directions. An additional two players
strode from behind, strangled both of the players who were in front of me at
the same time that they were strangling the umpire Luis. The other attack
came from behind me. Somebody pulled down my shorts, dumped a grease bucket
down my chest. The smell of the grease was putrid but heaven for a grease
master. Whilst my hands were free to counter-attack the choking of my neck
was seductive. The feeling was terrific. The choking proceeded to the point
where I started to drift in and out of consciousness; breathing was
difficult; the feeling was wonderful feeling and enlivened with the terminal
game threat. In truth I couldn’t resist the relentless pressure. I couldn’t
see my attacker. Then there was an interruption. The explanation seems to be
that another player choked my attacker. I find it exciting when a second
player chokes the first player who is currently choking a target. The
pressure stopped. I wiped my face. I pulled down the shorts of the two
players in front of me as they started to crumple to the ground. I grabbed a
full bucket and shared the grease between them. Somebody dumped half a bucket
over my attacker. I must add that the duties of some players included filling
up the buckets and positioning them where they could be used. At first I
thought their role was too limited but they proved me wrong. They took the
initiative and strangled at least two targets. Towards the climax a beefy
naked and fully greased player tackled one of them on the ground; he dumped
the player’s head into a small bucket and held it down whilst the player
choked on the grease. The goalkeepers had little to do as the players rarely
captured and aimed the ball through the goal posts. If I remember correctly
warmed up players captured both goalkeepers, pulled their pants down, and
chucked grease buckets down their chests. The goalkeepers took this in bad
faith; they protested; some players checked out big grease buckets—these were
already overflowing; some players made a terminal game decision. They
attacked both goalkeepers and strangled them. None of the teams scored a goal
so it was unclear whether anybody had won. At the end of the combat incident
all the survivors were covered in grease. I was unable to tell who had
survived. I do remember that a separate group was tasked to finish off and
remove the players in the bigger grease containers and so on. At the time I
felt this was slightly unfair to the survivors who were, by now, in a killing
frame-of-mind. An afterthought is that more attention must be paid to the
training of the umpires. This is a long story to point out that it is
necessary to have a replacement umpire.” |
