EXTRACT FOR
Sanoon Sarem - The Sex Galaxy
(Author Unknown)

     I know that it began with a brawl which had nothing to do with scoring goals and that someone parted me from my costume within two minutes of the opening siren, leaving me with a deep scratch on my left hip where they had grabbed the strap of my panties and yanked down hard.  I saw Sustuta break out of the grip of two of the Vagpower girls, one of whom was also already naked, pick up the ball and throw it to me and that I scored the first goal of the match.  I've seen it on the Tri V discs, but I can also clearly recall giving a salute to the crowd as the first of the Vagpower team raced off to the Shagging Post for her first dose of the night, but after that it all got too hectic.  

     They scored, we scored again, I can see coach Wasamat yelling at me from the sidelines and Yaani being spun off her feet by an opponent and a stream of urine pissing out from between her legs as she was flung around in front of me. But if that happened early in the match or late in the proceedings I couldn't be sure.

     I must have taken a lot of shags, you can't avoid that, but that too is a mess of isolated images and brief snatches of clear recall amid the noise from the crowd and the shouts, yells and occasional scream from the court.  I do remember clearly racing up to the Shagging Post to replace Sustuta who was still being pronged, her face an anguished mask of pain, sweat dripping off her nipples as she was held down and a big Ramaston behind her having the time of his life.  I recall thinking: 'Please, let it not be a Ramaston.' By the time I'd arrived she was being thrown forward and she almost collided with me as she ran back onto the court to help Yaani and Demiss while I cocked a leg over the post and was grabbed even before I was properly in position.  The shag I then received is lost in mist amid all the other shags I took that evening.

     There is a particular fragment of memory I have of looking down at my chest just as some anonymous Vagpower bitch rips four sharp claws through my tits and I see in slow motion a spray of blood following her hand. Another has me upside down above the court, with apparently everything around me stopped as if paused by some great galactic remote control.  There's a ringing in my ears and off ahead of me a few pairs of naked buttocks and legs are seemingly dangling from the roof.  It's a quiet moment, almost peaceful, then I'm dropped hard onto the court on my back with a thump and the world returns to its normal deafening roar and somebody kicks me hard in the crotch.

     I must have screamed a lot because at the end of the match my throat was scratchy dry and sore, and you can see me in the Tri V disc in full cry yelling and cursing as some monster dick is rammed into me, but happily for me I can't recall much of that.     

         

     The rest is just fragments: pricks and groping hands, the goal ring floating in front of me, the Shag Counter with its big symbols telling me if I'm due to line up for a fan fuck (And when has a player ever glanced at that thing and not found herself in deficit?) or a team mate bleeding.  You just get out there and keep doing what you can until mercifully the final siren sounds and you can collapse in a heap, hardly caring if you've won or lost, at least for a time.  We were a little out of practice but the old reactions soon came flooding back: the imperatives of The Game as drummed into us constantly by coach Wasamat. 

     They might have been implanted into our brains, these unwritten laws which made the difference between winners and losers:

     1/ Don't play fair, play to win.

     2/ Hurt your opponent before she can hurt you.

     3/ Take Three for your team, who cares if your cunt bleeds.

     4/ Keep your opponent's cunt busy by scoring goals.

     5/ Help a team mate and she'll help you.

And so on in a similar vein.  This wasn't sport, this was war.