("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._
`6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`)
(_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-'
_..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,'
(((' (((-((('' ((((
K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
_________________________________________
WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
material. If you do not wish to read this
type of literature, or you are under age,
PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
_________________________________________
Scroll down to view text
Archive name: soccer.txt (M+F, M+M, asian, v, forced)
Authors name: H. de Ball Sack (honoredeballsack@cumy.com)
Story title : Hardcore Hooligan
--------------------------------------------------------
This work is copyrighted to the author © 2001. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial
"free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites.
Thank you for your consideration.
--------------------------------------------------------
Hardcore Hooligan (M+F, M+M, asian, v)
by Honore de Ball Sack (honoredeballsack@cumy.com)
***
Ian knocked back his tenth pint of lager and looked at
his watch. The match didn't start for a couple of hours,
and he was well ready for a ruck. The pub was packed
with England supporters, and all his mates were standing
around him drinking and grunting. Ian was their
ringleader, and the other lads kept looking at him,
wondering when the action would kick off.
They had all paid exorbitant fees to get to Tokyo for
the World Cup. There weren't as many lads as had shown
up for France '90. That had been a good laugh, brawling
with dirty Tunisians and the violent Marseille riot
cops. But despite the high travel prices, England had
still managed to bring a fairly large contingent of
'ITK' lads to Japan. And they had managed to find the
only authentic English-style pub in Tokyo's Shinjuku
district, where they could consume hundreds of pints and
stuff their fat faces with greasy English food.
Even better, England's first match was against Turkey,
and the boys were well ready to beat up a few of the
hated Turks. There were less Turks than English, and the
odds were good for some of Saint George's finest to
spill some Asiatic blood. One thing bothered Ian,
though. Where was the O.B.?
"Oi, lads," Ian shouted. The rowdy crowd went silent and
listened. "Have you not seen much O.B. around? I mean,
where are all the pigs?"
"I dunno, Ian," said a porcine skinhead nicknamed Turk-
Killer after the night he heaved a brick through the
window of a Soho kebab shop. "I ain't seen no riot squad
or nuffin. These little fuckin' Japs must be well scared
of us."
Ian laughed savagely. "I bet they fuckin' well are, the
little yellow Chink bastards." The uneasy feelings
lingered in the back of his mind, though. He had never
seen such a miniscule police presence at an away match,
or any match for that matter. But still, the lads were
counting on him. "Fuck 'em! Now let's go get some fuckin
Turks! I heard there's a lot of them dirty Galatasaray
gangsters in town. Let's show them wankers what England
is about!"
The crowd of drunken hooligans roared their approval and
Ian led them outside into the warm Tokyo afternoon, to
the relief of the pub's staff. The stench of sweat and
beer lingered menacingly after they were gone.
*
The screaming gang of hooligans, now several dozen
strong, rampaged through the fashionable Tokyo
neighborhood, terrifying onlookers. The English animals
pounced on solitary men, women and especially the
elderly, giving them violent gang beatings and shouting
references to the Second World War. All the while the
chant of "En-ger-land, En-ger-land" grew louder amidst
the frenzied waving of the red and white Saint George's
Cross flags.
Finally they stopped and amassed on a corner, spying a
group of Turks drinking bottles of potent raki across
the wide boulevard. "There's them fuckin Turk bastards!"
Ian screamed, spittle spraying from his ugly sunburned
face. "Let's get 'em! This one's for Kevin and Chris!"
(Kevin & Chris were the two Leeds United hooligans
stabbed to death in Istanbul in April 2000, and their
memories fueled the racist revenge fantasies of all
England fans.)
The mob charged across the street and set upon the
Turkey supporters. Ian and three of his mates grabbed
the oldest Turk they saw, an elderly man in fact, and
proceeded to give him a vicious beating.
"You filthy Galatasaray-loving Turk wanker!" Ian
shrieked. "Get out of my country!" The alcohol had given
Ian the false impression that he was back in Leeds, not
Tokyo, and was doing his part to keep England pure and
white. He looked over to see his mate Turk-Killer going
at it with a swarthy Turk in a Galatasaray jersey. Most
of the Turks, although outnumbered, were unafraid of the
foul smelling island-monkeys attacking them. Ian and the
other hooligans were unused to their victims defending
themselves.
Several of the Turkey fans whipped out razor-sharp kebab
knives and wielded them with the dexterity of skilled
fencers. In an instant, three or four sunburned English
arms lay severed on the sidewalk. The English mob
panicked and scattered at the sight of their pure, Aryan
English blood flowing into the gutter of a foreign land.
The Turks laughed at the sight of the cowardly English
running like scared girls, and swaggered down the street
chain smoking.
Ian suppressed the urge to vomit and ran down a side
street, his fat body jiggling in the sun. He stopped and
leaned against a wall, heaving and coughing. This wasn't
right, he thought. Why weren't those Turk bastards
taking their beating like they should have? And why did
all his lads run away? Why did HE run away?
Suddenly he saw darkness. A sack had been thrown over
his shaven head, and he was roughly grabbed and thrown
into the back of a van. Completely overpowered, he
submitted to the violent manhandling and lay on the
vehicle's floor, cowering in fear. Was it the Turks? I
hope they don't kill me, he thought, I don't want to
die! He passed out.
*
Ian awoke with a brutal slap to his fat face. The sack
was off his head, and he was handcuffed to a metal
folding chair in a dark, empty warehouse. He looked up,
expecting to see a vengeful Turk clad in the red &
yellow of Galatasaray, and was shocked to see a small
Japanese man in a black suit.
"Oi! What the fuck's going on here? Oi Jap, I want to
call the British embassy."
The Japanese man smiled sadistically but said nothing.
"You don't fuckin' speak English, do you," sneered Ian.
"Shite, you lot are worse than them Turks. Now give me a
fuckin' telephone. I'm calling up me Queen."
"Your Queen cannot help you now," whispered his captor,
flashing a police badge. "Allow me to introduce myself.
I am Chief Tsuyoshi Shinjo of the Tokyo Prefecture
police department, special World Cup Unit. We have been
planning for your arrival for several years." He paused
to light a cigarette. "It is a pleasure to meet you in
person. I have read your dossier many times."
Ian was terrified. "So you're O.B.? I thought youse
were all scared of us."
Chief Shinjo smiled. "We are not afraid of English
football hooligans. The Japanese police have been
following you since your arrival. We have a special
surprise for you, Mr. Ian. We are not as lenient as the
police in France or Italy, but we will not harm you."
Ian breathed a sigh of relief. "In fact, for this World
Cup we have subcontracted out."
"Wot's that mean? Sub-con-tracted?"
"It means, Mr. Ian, that the Yakuza will be taking over
from here. Have you heard of the Yakuza?"
Ian shook his head no. This dirty Jap bastard was
playing mind games with him. Chief Shinjo laughed and
walked to the door. "The Yakuza is the Japanese mafia,
Mr. Ian. They are quite skilled in this kind of work."
He unlocked it and let in a team of Yakuza geisha. The
kimono-clad temptresses shuffled towards him, their
wooden sandals scraping noisily along the concrete floor
of the warehouse.
"Wot the fuck?" yelled Ian, struggling against the
handcuffs. "Wot are you?"
The chief geisha walked up to Ian and crammed a ball gag
into his mouth, tying it tight against the back of his
head. His cries were reduced to muffled grunts. These
kimono wearing pseudo-hookers had been hired by the
Japanese mafia to sexually torture him. This would never
happen in England!
The chief geisha bowed respectfully to the terrified
English football hooligan. She then kicked him in the
face with her hard wooden sandal, unleashing a stream of
blood from Ian's swollen nose. Two other geisha used
sharp tanto daggers to cut Ian's clothes off, including
his precious Leeds United jersey which they daintily
spat upon.
Ian struggled against the expert rope bondage and choked
against the plastic ball gag. One of the geisha, young
and attractive, smiled at him and started stroking his
tiny uncircumcised cock. Another reached down and began
to fondle his ball-sack.
Perhaps the torture is over, thought Ian, perhaps these
sexy women are so aroused by my naked body that they
will simply fuck and suck me then let me go& that would
be just loverly! I've always wanted to nail a Jap bird -
- "Mmmmfff!" came his muffled shriek. The geisha who had
been grabbing his balls had suddenly squeezed them in a
deadly ninja vice-grip. She cackled sadistically as his
nut-sack swelled to the size of a ripe grapefruit. The
other one, however, continued to stroke him off. Despite
the horrible pain in his balls, the expert touch of the
hand-job geisha kept Ian hard.
Suddenly the ninjitsu-trained geisha released him from
his bondage. Still dazed (and fully erect) Ian stumbled
around. Then, just as suddenly, he found himself bent
over with his hands handcuffed to his ankles. "Mmmff!"
he tried to scream again, for he knew what was coming
a raunchy anal violation.
He was right. One of the kimono-clad sex ninjas crammed
an unlubricated butt-plug up his ass. The searing pain
was not nearly as bad as the humiliation, which only
increased when Ian realized he was still hard. The women
realized it too, and their dainty giggles almost made
Ian faint from embarrassment as he wondered what could
be next.
The women shuffled into the corner and sat on the floor
in the traditional style. Oh God, thought Ian, what
could possibly be next?
A door opened and a short, muscular Yakuza enforcer
swaggered towards Ian. The Japanese gangster had a face
scarred by years of knife fights, and his body pressed
out against his cheap, gaudy polyester suit. Without
pausing, he pushed Ian over and began delivering a
savage beating in the best tradition of his Yakuza clan.
He repeatedly kicked the Englishman in the face and
back, grunting Japanese obscenities. He finished off
with a swift and brutal kick to the ass, which only
forced the butt-plug further into Ian's virgin colon.
The Yakuza enforcer then spat disrespectfully on the
semi-conscious hooligan's body and walked out the door.
That must be the end of this horrible ordeal, thought
Ian hopefully. That surely was the final act of
degradation. Have I not been punished enough for my life
of racist violence against those weaker than myself?
Apparently not, he thought as a gigantic naked sumo
wrestler entered the room. The geisha clapped politely
for the enormous man as he stomped, Godzilla-like,
towards his victim. With no effort, he lifted Ian off
the floor and held him above the ground using only one
fat hand. With the other hand, he yanked out the butt
plug and thrust his huge cock into Ian's asshole.
I understand, thought Ian. The butt plug was only to
loosen me up for the sumo-rape.
Then all thoughts vanished as he completely gave himself
over to the painful violation. After several minutes,
the sumo shot his load of sticky miso-jizz into Ian's
large intestine. He threw the Englishman against a wall
and wiped the sweat off his flabby man-tits. The geisha
women stood and applauded the wrestler's sexual prowess,
presenting him with a $1000 bottle of sake as a reward
for his help.
The chief geisha approached the thoroughly degraded
Englishman. Finally it's over, thought Ian. There can be
no further humiliation. The sumo-rape is the most
degrading act that these sadistic Japs could have
planned. Then the geisha opened her mouth and surprised
Ian by speaking in excellent English.
"Ian-san," she said, taking out his ball gag. "You have
undergone the most sadistic tortures that our
organization had planned for you."
"Right," mumbled Ian, "so you're gonna let me go now,
yeah?"
She paused. "Yes, you may leave soon. But first there is
only one final ritual we must perform. We do need to
make some yen, of course. We are a business after all."
Ian stared blankly.
She continued: "Have you ever heard of the ancient and
sacred Japanese art of bukkake?"
"Bukkake? Wot's that?"
She laughed. "You will see!" She whistled and a camera
crew entered the room and began setting up lights and
expensive video cameras. "You will be a movie star, Ian-
san. You will be starring in our film production
company's latest video, 'Degrading English Hooligan
Bukkake Party.' It will hopefully be as successful as
our last production, 'Naughty Office Lady Yakuza Bukkake
Festival.'"
The director of the film crew signaled that he was
ready, and one hundred naked Japanese businessmen
marched single-file into the room. "Action!" yelled the
director. The hundred men surrounded Ian, removed their
smelly shorts and threw them at him as they
simultaneously screamed "BUKKAKE!" They then lined up in
front of him and started playing with themselves.
The first cumshot hit Ian square in the eye and dripped
down his cheek. Ian didn't even know what to think of
this latest bizarre ritual. He simply sat against the
wall as load after load of sticky jism landed on his
face. After the 30th or 40th man had masturbated on his
face, Ian stopped counting. But the cum kept flying in
his direction. The cameraman circled around him, getting
the best angles of the Englishman's grimacing face.
Finally the 100th man ejaculated on Ian. The sumo
wrestler returned to the room, already drunk off the
expensive rice wine, and added a final load onto Ian's
head for good measure. The chief geisha scraped the
excess cum off Ian and deposited it into a martini glass
which was garnished with a stuffed olive. "Drink!" she
commanded. Ian sipped the revolting mixture of man-juice
and forced himself to swallow in the hopes that a good
performance would set him free. He drank it down to the
last drop, suppressing his natural gag reflex, and
passed out.
He awoke naked in a gutter, where he had been
unceremoniously deposited by the yakuza gangsters. He
blinked and looked up to see his mates looking down at
him with fear and disgust. They lifted his naked body up
and took him to the pub, where they gave him clothes and
beer. He there recounted his horrible tale to them.
The rest of the World Cup passed without incident. In
the final, Turkey beat Brazil by a score of 7-0, but
what really shocked the international press was the lack
of violence. Apparently a mysterious cure had been found
for the "English Disease" of football hooliganism.
The next season of English Premier League football was
similarly peaceful. Football fans young and old were
able to attend matches without fear of death or
violence. The beautiful game was once more beautiful,
and hooliganism was a thing of the past.
THE END
email - honoredeballsack@cumy.com
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 15