When does Sunday football become his cock in you? Gay erotic story about two colleagues watching football in bed until the denial breaks. Oral sex, a kept sheet, and a Sunday fuck while the match runs on mute By Harlan Maddox-Powell.

Warning: this story contains scenes of a sexual nature, including: oral sex, mutual masturbation, anal sex, bareback, swallowing, internal ejaculation, workplace colleagues, dirty sheets. This story is written for adults and is not for minors.

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Rhys’s arm is over my stomach, the match is still on, and his cock is a hard line against my hip through the shorts, which is how I know we’re past the bit where this is only football.

I’m Jamie, thirty-four, one-bed in a converted terrace, accounts. Rhys is twenty-nine and we’ve been on the same team five years: same desk bank, same lifts when the rain starts, same score thread that’s older than half the office. We don’t share a bed except on Sundays. We’ve got a line for that, and it is watching football and cuddling in bed is not gay.

He used it the week the lounge telly died and I told him the only working screen was the one opposite the mattress. He used it when the boiler packed in and the bedroom was the one room that held any heat if you shut the door. He used it last Sunday with his cock in my mouth. He’ll use it again today.

The first Sunday we were still dressed for a match. He’d brought beer. I’d shut the door because the hall was colder than the room. He got in on the left in a hoodie and shorts, I got in on the right in a T-shirt and boxers, and the duvet came up to our chests with his thigh sat against mine through the whole first half. I left it there.

He didn’t get up at half-time. He rolled onto his side to face the screen and his arm came over my stomach, and I felt him filling out against my hip while I kept my eyes on the pundits and he kept the arm where it was. Second half he shouted at a dive and the shout shoved him tighter in. His cock was a shape I could name through the shorts. Mine had started to answer him. I put my hand on my own thigh and left it there until the whistle, when he told me to stay put, they’d show the goal again, and his hand slid from my stomach to the waistband of my boxers and waited.

I lifted my hips.

His fingers went under the elastic and found me cut, hard, seven inches in his fist, and the noise he made wasn’t about the replay. I reached behind me, got my hand inside his shorts, and found him uncut and thicker, the skin already moving over the head of his cock. He pushed the duvet to our knees. The screen lit both of us. We’re just getting this out of the way so we can watch the late one, he said, and I turned and took him in my mouth.

The head of his cock was slick and the foreskin bunched under my lip. He held the back of my head and fucked up in short strokes that found the back of my throat and eased off when I made a sound around him. I kept a fist at the base of his cock so I could choose the depth. Salt hit my tongue. His other hand stayed on me, twisting on the way up, thumb at the slit of my cock every time he reached the head. I pulled off long enough to spit on him and take him again and he said fuck, Jamie, and his thighs locked and he came over my tongue in two heavy pulses and a third I wasn’t ready for. I swallowed what I could. The rest ran out the corner of my mouth onto his hip and sat there in the light from the screen.

I finished on his stomach in three pulls with his load still in my mouth, a trail that dried into a pale circle of cum on the sheet. He wiped my mouth with that same sheet, laughed, went to the bathroom. Water ran. The text came from in there: you washing that or leaving it.

I left it.

He came back, pulled his shorts up, and sat on the edge of the bed to drink the rest of his beer and watch the late kick-off with his shoulder against mine. We didn’t touch again that afternoon. When he left he squeezed the back of my neck in the doorway the way he does after a bad meeting, except this time his thumb stayed an extra second at my hairline.

Monday we sat three desks apart and talked about a client who wouldn’t sign. When he reached across the printer his sleeve rode up and I saw the inside of his wrist and thought about that wrist on my cock. At lunch he put a coffee on my desk without asking how I took it, which he already knew. The thread between us had a Saturday score in it and nothing else.

Tuesday I caught him in the kitchen waiting on the kettle. You look wrecked, he said. The boiler’s still off, I said, and he said I know, tapped the counter twice, took his mug and left.

Wednesday I told him in the lift the lounge telly was still dead. Sunday then, he said, and I said Sunday, and he bumped my shoulder on the way out and left his arm there a second longer than the joke needed.

Thursday the boiler went. I sent him a photo of the thermostat on zero. He sent a thermometer emoji and then I will bring beer. I didn’t tell him not to.

Friday we stayed late. The office emptied. He sat on the edge of my desk while I finished a file, his knee against mine under the wood, and asked if I’d washed the sheet. No, I said, and he smiled at the screen and said good.

After the late file we walked to the pub on the corner, the way we do when a week is ugly. He paid. I found a table. His knee found mine under it and stayed. We talked about the client and then we didn’t talk. He looked at my mouth once and then at his pint, walked me to the end of my road, and stopped.

I went up alone, stood in the dark bedroom, put my hand on the dried load he’d left, and thought about his cock in my mouth until I had to wank standing up with my eyes on the dark screen, cumming into my own fist with his name in my teeth.

Saturday I changed nothing. The circle of cum was still there. I bought beer I didn’t need and left the bedroom door open. In the morning I washed the mug he’d used last week and left the sheet, went for a run I didn’t want, came back, and texted him a kick-off time he already knew. He sent a thumbs-up and then, a minute later, don’t wash it. I sent back I haven’t. He sent a full stop.

Sunday he arrived before I’d put a shirt on, two cans already sweating, looked at the bed and the dried load and me, and got in first. He had the early kick-off on by the time I shut the door. He put my hand on him before the anthem finished and said it again: watching football and cuddling in bed is not gay.

His cock was hard in my fist, uncut, thick, wet where I’d started to work him. I got in. He pulled the duvet to our chests. His thigh found mine, his arm went over my stomach, and the match became noise I could ignore while I stroked him under the duvet and he got under my waistband and stroked me the same way, thumb over the slit of my cock, no rush because we had ninety minutes and then another ninety if we wanted them. We looked at the screen. His hips pushed into my fist on a throw-in. Mine pushed into his on a corner. At the first goal he tightened and I tightened and he said Jamie into my neck, so I turned my head and kissed his mouth.

His teeth caught my lip. I opened for him. His hand left my cock only long enough to hold my jaw and then it went back faster, and I had to break the kiss to breathe against his cheek while someone scored and the crowd went up. He kissed back tasting of beer, a tongue that started clumsy and then fitted, and then his hand left my cock to push my boxers down and I shoved his shorts to his knees. The duvet sat at our hips. Light from the screen ran over his chest and the hair on his stomach and the head of his cock where my fist had been.

I went down on him because last Sunday had made that ordinary. He held my hair and fucked my mouth in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the pitch. I took him until my eyes watered, pulled off, spat on his shaft, took him again. Don’t stop, he said, and I didn’t. His hand found my cock and used the wet I was leaving on his wrist. I wanted him to last and I wanted him to finish and I couldn’t hold both while he was hitting the back of my throat.

He pulled me off by the hair. On me, he said, the way you did.

I climbed up and put our cocks together in one fist, his thicker, mine longer, the heads sliding. I spat and stroked us both while he held my hip and the back of my neck and watched my hand. He came first, a thick pulse over my knuckles onto his stomach, onto the dried load that had never quite left. I followed in three pulls, my load on his, running into the hair below his navel.

I stayed on him with his cock twitching against mine. Half-time had started and neither of us had looked at the score. He wiped his thumb through the mess, put it in my mouth, and I sucked it while he laughed into my neck and asked if I was leaving that again.

Yes, I said.

Good, he said, and he didn’t turn back to the screen. I’ve been thinking about your mouth all week. I sat in that meeting on Thursday and I could still feel your throat. If you want to do more than this, say it.

I want you to fuck me.

The mute was still on. The crowd moved behind his shoulder. He looked at me while his cock filled again against my hip, and I took it in my hand and felt him harden the rest of the way before he rolled me onto my back, got between my thighs, spat on his fingers, and pushed two into me while the second half kicked off without us. I held his wrist. My hole took them. He scissored them, watched my face, waited for the nod, kissed the inside of my knee, and kept going until he found the angle that made my cock jump against my stomach. Breathe, he said. I breathed. He added a third finger and I swore at him and pulled him closer by the hoodie.

He pulled his fingers out, lined the head of his cock up, and pushed. He’s thicker than two fingers. I felt the stretch in my hole and in my spine. He went in an inch and waited. I nodded. He gave me more. The uncut head of his cock dragged. I took him to the base of his cock and held him there with my heels on his ass while he fucked me in long strokes and a crowd I wasn’t watching roared at something else. I could hear us over it: skin, his breath, the wet sound of him in me. He wrapped a fist around my cock and stroked me in time. I told him harder and he gave me harder and the headboard tapped the wall and I didn’t care.

I’m close, he said.

In me.

He shoved deep and came in a run of pulses I felt in my gut, hips flush, mouth open against my shoulder, and I came over his fist and my own stomach, adding a third layer of cum to a sheet that was past saving, my hole clamping on him through it until he hissed and held still.

He stayed in me until his cock started to soften, then pulled out, and the loss of him made me hiss. His load leaked onto the sheet between my ass and the mattress. He looked at it, looked at me, wiped his cock on my thigh, and lay down along my side with his arm over my stomach again.

I could feel him leaking out of me every time I shifted. I reached down, put two fingers through the mess, and brought them up between us. He watched me put them in my mouth, swore under his breath, and kissed me with that taste still on my tongue.

The second half ran out. Neither of us could have named the score. His mouth was against my hair. My hole was open and used. The room smelled of sweat and sex and the beer we hadn’t finished.

Next Sunday I’m coming earlier, he said.

The door’ll be shut.

Keep the sheet.

I was going to.

He didn’t sleep at once. He put his hand back on my cock, spent and tender, and held it, and I put my hand on his the same way, and we lay like that through the credits and the studio talk and the start of some other match I didn’t recognise. His breathing slowed. Mine didn’t. When he did sleep it was on my chest, hoodie still half on, shorts around one ankle, and I watched the empty screen and felt his cum drying on the inside of my thigh and the weight of his arm where it had started.

He woke when the light in the room had gone flat, kissed the place under my ear, got up, pulled his shorts on, and drank the warm beer because it was there. He stood at the end of the bed and looked at me, at the sheet, at the door. My thighs were tacky. When I sat up his load shifted inside me and I had to put a hand on the mattress to wait it out. He saw that. He didn’t look away.

I’m not going to pretend this is only football next week, he said.

I stopped pretending last Sunday.

He nodded, put his trainers on, left the last can on the floor next to the first two, said my name once at the door. I said his back. Then he was gone down the stairs.

I didn’t wash the sheet. I stripped it in the morning and put it back on because the dried load was the point. In the shower I felt him leak out of me under the water and put two fingers in myself and came again with my forehead on the tile and his name in my mouth.

Monday we’ll sit three desks apart and talk about a client. I’ll sit forward in the chair and hope no one asks why. Wednesday he’ll bump my shoulder in the lift. Thursday he’ll put a coffee on my desk and his fingers will brush mine around the cup. Saturday he’ll text don’t wash it. Sunday he’ll be here before the anthem with cold beer and a hard-on he won’t bother hiding, and I’ll shut the door, and he’ll put my hand on him, and we’ll call it whatever we need to call it to get his cock in me again. He’ll say the line one more time. I’ll let him say it. Then I’ll put him on his back and take what we stopped pretending we were only watching.

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© 2026 Harlan Maddox-Powell. All rights reserved. This story is the intellectual property of the author. No part of it may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without prior written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews or other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This and all stories are works of fantasy. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. All characters depicted are consenting adults. Some works may be inspired by other creators, but all work is entirely original and written by Harlan Maddox-Powell. All characters are adults and have fully consented to the depicted roleplay scenario. In real life, always practise safe sex and enthusiastic consent.