Swedish Nights

I knew I was in trouble as soon as she went down. I was going for the ball, I was sure I would get to it but at the last second Sara Martinsson turned with lithe grace, accelerated away and my outstretched foot caught her trailing leg. She went down and rolled over a couple of times, clutching her shin, just to make sure. The referee ran over waving the red card like a coast guard warning a passing ship to steer clear of the rocks.

No-one even looked at me as I passed our bench and made the lonely walk of shame to the dressing room. This was meant to be a highlight of my career, a Women’s Champions’ League Semi –Final First Leg away in Sweden, me marking Sara Martinsson the world’s best midfielder. She had been too good for me, fair enough, but she didn’t have to go down like that. I slammed the dressing room door behind me took off a boot and threw it against the wall. I sat down, pulled my shirt over my face and wept.

‘Fuck’ I shouted hoping I was loud enough to be heard outside. But that was a vain hope. Even a crowd of three thousand was making plenty of noise. Their team was 2-0 up, we were a player short and Sara Martinsson was pulling the strings in midfield. There must be more goals to come. There were still forty minutes to play.

My sobbing and self pity were interrupted by a knock on the door. I pulled the shirt back down over my midriff as it opened and Sara Martinsson stood before me,

‘They took me off, precautionary thing, I picked up a knock’ she said simply. ‘I’m sorry you got sent off I really am.’

I was about to day something when she said

‘Come to our dressing room. We can shower together There’s plenty of time ill the games’ over.’

She shut the door and walked off down the corridor. I sat nonplussed for a minute then thought sod it. I took off my other boot and padded down the corridor to the home dressing room in my socks.

I walked on and saw Sara. She had undressed already and lay on a bench, knees bent, legs slightly apart, pleasuring herself.

‘Have you been with a girl before?’ she asked.

I said nothing.

‘It doesn’t matter. Anyway take your kit off. We can’t have fun in our football gear can we?’

As I undressed she went to turn the showers on and adjust the temperature. I approached nervously. .

‘I haven’t got my stuff with me.’

‘You can use mine’ she said taking my hand and leading me gently into the shower. She came up behind me, pressed herself against me and began to nuzzle my hair.

She squeezed out some shower gel and started to rub it into my back in slow careful movements, starting from my neck and moving down my back to my buttocks which she caressed before rubbing gel into them. She knelt down and moved her fingers around my anus before moving between my legs to soap my cunt. As her fingers worked their way up to my clit I felt her tongue against my anus, licking round the edge,.

‘I like your arse. I like it a lot. Second leg next week. I’ll come prepared. I’ve got some fantastic toys. ’ She laughed and began to finger my clit. Hot water was streaming down from the shower heads and in the steam I could see nothing. That heightened the excitement as she began to play me like a fiddle. I had never been touched by a woman before. She massaged my clit with delicacy and expertise then stood up and came round in front of me. She took some more gel onto her hands and began to soap my tits. She washed off the foam and began to suck on the nipples, talking them between her lips which she pursed to squeeze them before turning her head to twist them. I let out a cry and she laughed. She gave them a playful bite and knelt before me to carry on applying the gel.  Soon I felt her tongue against my clit which hardened as she quickened the licks, stiffening her tongue to make a delightful abrasiveness.

We finished showering and Sara pulled a big fluffy towel binding us tightly together. We kissed. The smell of sweat, turf, and linament had quite gone. I abandoned myself to her as she gripped the back of my head and pushed her tongue deep inside my mouth.

‘One more thing’ said Sara. ‘Kneel,’

She slackened the towel and I dropped to my knees. I pressed my face to her shaven cunt, felt the roughness of the stubble against my cheek. Just above the stubble I saw a small tattoo of the Swedish flag. I kissed it lingeringly feeing a frisson of disloyalty. Then I moved down pushing out my tongue in search of her clit. I probed and licked and she placed a finger on the spot where her clit sat beneath its hood.

‘Lick me just there.’ said Sara.

I worked away pleasuring her trying to make my tongue stiff as she had done when licking me, worshipping her most precious part, her lovely Scandinavian clit. I licked in slow form strokes and she gasped, grabbed a hanger to support herself as the pleasure coursed through her. She cried out in Swedish. I didn’t understand but didn’t care.  It surely meant my tongue was doing its work.

She turned round and I started sniffing her anus. It smelt sweet and fresh, like a meadow of flowers. I flicked my tongue out and began to explore the opening. I worked round the edge, licking the opening with slow leisurely strokes. I loved her arse, loved the buttocks I began to kiss, loved the dragon tattoo on the small of her back. God, this woman had spent fifty minutes humiliating me on a football field and now, it was almost as if the match no longer mattered. I had completely forgotten the match, had not noticed the time.

‘Shit!’ I said.

‘We’ve still got ten minutes. I think we’ve scored again. But we’ve got time for a finger fucking.’

I lay on the treatment table legs apart. She climbed on top of me and after rubbing my clit pushed a finger into my soaking wet cunt.

‘You’re wet, your cunts is open like a big cave. I knew you were a slut as soon as I saw you. You’re not much good at football are you, but sex well…..I’ll bring my toys next week and make it up to you for not being in the Final.’

She laughed and stuck in a second longer, then a third.

‘I want four, give me four’ I gasped ‘and fuck me hard.’

She was soon moving in and out. Her hands were soft and delicate for a footballer her fingers long. She moved in and out rubbing the skin over the pubic bone as she did so, arousing me even more, making me wetter and wetter.

‘I’m all yours, all yours’ I moaned.

‘You can come to our hotel next week. Some of the other girls would like to give you a real fucking. You can be the whole team’s pet slut.’

She moved her fingers in and out again, more and more vigorously

‘Make me you slut, make me your slut’ I cried, ‘Fuck me fuck me fuck me’

I massaged my clit as she reached a crescendo and came with a loud cry. I had soaked the treatment table.

Sara took a cloth to clean up. As she wiped the table I dropped to my knees and kissed her feet, the golden feet that could caress a football like no other woman’s, the feet on which she moved with balletic grace around the pitch, the feet that had humiliated me, the feet I adored, the feet I loved. I kissed her frantically, desperately, clung to her ankles as she tried to move away.

‘Make me your slut’ I said, quietly this time. ‘Please.’

Then we heard a cheer and voices coming from the tunnel and the click clack of studs. It was time for me to be gone.

I walked back to our dressing room in a daze. I had Sara’s shirt and pressed it to my face breathing in deeply the smell of her, the smell I wanted to remember for ever. The door opened and my team mates came in.

‘Five fucking nil’ said one looking at me as if I was to blame. ‘Were you going to ask or don’t you care? I was so looking forward to going to Paris for the Final. Fuck! Fuck!’

She took a water bottle and hurled it against the wall. As it bounced off the floor she cried out in another howl of anguish.


‘They took Sara Martinson off’ said somebody else. ‘They reckon she might be a doubt for the second leg.’

I froze. If she was injured she wouldn’t travel. I gripped the shirt tighter.

‘I know. She popped in to say sorry.’

‘And give you her shirt as well. You can wash it and frame it and it will make a nice souvenir of the day you lost us the Champions’ League.’

I ignored the barbed comment.

‘Wash it?’ I said. ‘I’ll never do that.’

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