For the uninitiated, British football fans follow their teams near and far. It’s quite literally planes, trains and automobiles across the country, Europe and beyond. One of the most exciting parts of following your team is when the pan-European competitions come up. The Champions League and the Europa League. These competitions allow for mini holidays and what usually follows is several days of booze, sex and debauchery. The team you will face, and of course the city you will be visiting is entirely down to UEFA, the football governing body’s randomised draw procedure. You could end up with a glamour tie in Milan or Madrid, or you might find yourself in the arsehole of Europe. Sometimes even the occasional warzone. And they say football isn’t about life or death… it’s more important.
To pass the time on these long and arduous trips across the continent, some of the lads in the group have come up with a juvenile game. The Shagging World Cup. The rules are simple. One point every time you have sex with someone from a different country. No hookers, no escorts, no strippers, you can’t buy yourself a World Cup here, this isn’t Qatar. And the 4 nations of the UK don’t count. You always get one who takes games too far and plays as if their life depends on it. In our group that would be our mate Dave, who seems to be doing record numbers despite never leaving his hometown outside of a football trip. I mean the guy claims to have a point for Burkina Faso!
Every trip Dave will bring up the question: “how many countries have you shagged?”
He needs an update from the guys he hasn’t seen in a while and likes to initiate any newcomers into the “tournament.” I reckon I’d have a pretty good chance at this Shagging World Cup if I done a count, but I tried not to get involved. I didn’t want to come across like a Dave. Burkina Faso ffs!!!
I had a few countries under my belt, just not a landlocked one in West Africa, susceptible to military coups. I’m not professing to be the Brazil of shagging or anything. I had just spent many a lads holiday chasing a certain type of women. In my early 20’s, my mates would rack up a notch on the bedpost every other night with other English speakers, while I went out of the comfort zone and put hard graft into chatting up Spanish, Italian or Hispanic women. Basically, brunettes who had a darker complexion than my pale British skin.
Our next trip was confirmed. Seville in Spain. It just so happened that my friend Alysia, who I had a holiday fling with in Ibiza several years ago was from Seville. By fling I mean a few nights of crazy drunken sex where morals and dignity would be *flung* out of the window. I specifically remember Alysia attempting to defeat the offside trap and stick a finger where it was not welcome. Yellow card for encroachment in the nether regions.
I booked my flights and accommodation and made a mental note to message Alysia. As if by magic, I got an incoming FB messenger video call.
“Hey, they say on the news you’re coming to my city.”
“Yes. Me and a few thousand others!”
I came off the call feeling positive. I had arranged to catch up with Alysia at some point, had the downlow on local knowledge, a backup in case something went wrong with the hotel, and Alysia had a chance to practice her English skills. The last time we were together it was limited to a few [crude] phrases. We have both now breached 30, but Alysia was still as I had remembered her. Pretty, long black hair, hazel eyes and a mischievous grin that would warn off more sensible men than me. A rematch was on the cards.
I had arrived in Seville several days before the big match. It was days of drinking and partying with other supporters of my team. Things hadn’t quite worked out for Alysia and me up until this point and I was due to leave the morning after the game. It was do or die time for us. We had to make a solid plan. Alysia would be hanging out with friends in a place not far from the stadium, where I’d meet her after the game.
The whole matchday organisation was a shambles. I had been split up from my group, everybody’s phones had died on account of battery packs being confiscated at the stadium and after a long day of drinking under Seville’s blazing sun, I was a bit worse for wear. By somewhat of a miracle, I had managed to find my way to the pre-arranged meeting spot I had with Alysia. She appeared rocking all black. A crop top, dress shorts and a pair of heeled ankle boots. Alysia is about 5’3” but had legs for days and the shorts she was wearing just accentuated that. Meeting her turned out to be a godsend as she navigated us back to my hotel room amongst the post-match chaos and crippled transport network.
I must have blacked out as there is a gap in my memory between the journey back to the hotel and Alysia straddling me on the hotel room bed in nothing but her bra and panties. I had stripped down to my boxers which I don’t remember doing. Alysia was taking mouthfuls of champagne straight out of the bottle, in-between bouts of conversation. She was using her free hand to caress my dick over the material of my boxers. Now that I was more coherent it progressed to her leaning in for a kiss in between slugging from the bottle. Drink > kiss > tug at my cock. It was a position I was not complaining at being in. Until she leaned in and instead of kissing decided to offload some champagne from her mouth into mine, then bite my lip in the process. Ah there it was. That notorious mischievous grin along with the little giggle. I remembered it well. Alysia liked to play rough and she provoked it by biting, scratching and now apparently spitting into my mouth.
I instinctively flipped her onto her back and pinned to her to the bed. I knew I had been played. This is exactly how she intended it to go. We kissed hard as my dick grinded against her pussy through the material of our underwear. Her head rolled to the side exposing her neck which I kissed and then bit. This caused her to let out a loud moan and we both frantically removed what was remaining of our clothes. I worked the length of myself inside her. I could feel the contrast of the cool hotel room air against the warm juices that covered my shaft, as I eased myself in and out. I began pounding hard and fast.
Just as I was about to cum I slowed down and was met with Alysia’s teeth sinking in to the side of my face. I wrapped a hand around her throat, pushed her head back into the bed and picked up the pace again.
“Harder” she moaned as her nails dug sharply into my back.
Her moans and pleas brought me close to cumming again. I rolled her onto her stomach, used the weight of my body to pin her to the bed, entered her from behind in prone and pounded until I came inside her.
We must have fallen asleep then woke up through the night again. I awoke in total darkness and fully erect as Alysia gently stroked my face. Our naked bodies were pressed against each other, with her leg over me. I could feel the wetness from her pussy as it rubbed against my leg. In a drunken, sleepy haze I pulled her on top of me, where she guided me inside her, I grabbed her by the arse with both hands and began thrusting upwards, hard and fast. It was hot and intense and inhibitions were numbed by alcohol and brain fog from sleep. Her pussy had a different sensation this time. It was swollen from the earlier pounding. I pumped another load inside her, then she rolled onto her back where I returned the favour by caressing her clit until she came, using her juices and my cum as lube.
BANG BANG BANG. I was rudely awoken in the light of day by another type of pounding. The incessant pounding at my hotel room door. I didn’t know where I was or what time of day it was. I looked next to me and seen Alysia.
Shit! Things were slowly coming together. I was supposed to be catching an early morning flight home. It was my mate Lloyd at the door who had also found himself in a precarious situation. He had only just found his way back to his room from the night before. We had zero time to spare and had to get to the airport, quick style. I gathered my stuff at rapid pace, shouted bye to Alysia who responded with a groan in her semi coherent state, and made a mad dash to the airport.
We were last to board and just in the nick of time. Seat 11A and 11B for myself and Lloyd. The closer I got to row 11 the more apparent it became that Dave was in 11C. I was scratched up, bitten and bruised, hungover, my cock felt like it had just done a shift as a whack-a-mole and now I had to listen to Dave for 3 hours. This was the last thing I needed.
Dave looked mega proud of himself. He had pulled a bird on this trip and it was even verifiable. A new country. “Portugal!” he was telling anybody who would listen. “Lisburn, Portugal.”
A voice piped up from behind. “Lisburn, not Lisbon ya tool. She was from Lisburn in Northern Ireland. It’s the UK, so it doesn’t count.”
Dave looked gutted. It was the only time someone had actually seen him get a girl that wasn’t in an Amsterdam shop window and he didn’t even get a point for the Shagging World Cup.
“How many countries have you shagged?” he asked at me.
Spain, Italy, Holland, Germany, Sweden, Bulgaria, Australia, South Africa, America, Mexico, and Colombia.
Dave looked shocked. I had him beat. I just knew it. That should be enough to shut him up for 3 hours. He paused for a second while he tried to compute the information.
“Well mate, I’ve had all of those countries, plus Burkina Faso.”
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/z0nawh/the_world_cup_of_shagging_mf