The Summerhouse Ch. 08: Tom

Clare and I had a few debauched weekends and several amazing nights of fantastic sex with our hosts and their never-ending litany of friends. I adored the sight of sexual ecstasy etched on the face of my fiancée as a well-endowed man ploughed into her. I had not tired of the sinful sounds of a thick prick pounding into the lubricated holes of my girl, or flesh slapping as they passionately copulated. I enjoyed the musky smells of lust, fevered fornication and gratification from two or more rutting lovers.

But it was my position, and my humiliation that was the real deliciousness. I fluffed, I watched, I waited, and I cleaned up. I was present to facilitate the vast majority of Clare's sexual enjoyment, not to cause it. Each thrust into her unguarded pussy by the meaty dick was a slap to my pride and a boost to my happiness.

I adored every moment of her promiscuity, and I loved her more each time she orgasmed from another man. And since she had moved to Manchester, there had been a lot of others. Victoria saw to that. Sometimes, I had to pick her up from her date, and got to hear how her lover had performed. She knew it made me horny, and she played on my obvious discomfort to make me squirm, or even treat me to a ruined orgasm.

Meanwhile, our partners had excelled themselves in finding more and more creative outfits for us to wear when entertaining on Saturdays. The chastity cage was especially humiliating, and this was only beaten by the cheerleader outfit. The black leather harness and jockstrap was a combination they used twice, and the footballers loved the addition of the kinky clothing, as it gave them something to grip as they fucked us.

Martin and I grew close. We lived, slept and cooked together, and on some days, I spent more time with Victoria's husband than I spent with my partner. We had lots of sex in front of each other, and I learnt that his favourite act was one of mine. Mutually sucking the multi-millionaire in a "69" position became an everyday occurrence, when Victoria had not placed her spouse in a chastity cage. It solved the morning wood problem, was within the House Rules, and put me in a good frame of mind to work for the day.

Other mornings, I would make breakfast for my wife, and wake her gently with a bowl of fresh porridge, a steaming mug of tea and a screaming orgasm, delivered by sensual cunnilingus.

Scott was a regular visitor to the summerhouse. He travelled to his workplace by bicycle, and it was only a brief detour from his usual route to go via our wooden abode. He avoided our designated "couple nights" but on any other day he could saunter into the lodge as I was finishing work and announce that "Iain's working tonight and I have two balls of cum. I'm going to screw you!"

A massage on the table, followed by soft, slow oral and finished with a rampant display of masculinity. Sometimes Scott would seize his fuck, driving his cock into me while Martin watched. However, if Victoria's submissive husband had to prepare dinner, it would be more sensual.

Many a time, he slid over my naked body as I lay on the cushion, and placed his powerful thighs either side of mine. He slowly gyrated his hips rhythmically to fuck my arse. I adored the skin-to-skin contact and the tactile nature of his dominance.

I felt his warm breath on the nape of my neck as he sensuously drove my body to an erotic climax. He often stayed for dinner after such a luxurious orgasm, and sat between Martin and myself, as Clare gave him a knowing smile.

I travelled to Bristol for an overnight stay once every three or four weeks; my manager needed regular face-to-face conversations with me, and each time I'd message Benji the details of my hotel. Without fail, the bald-headed dominant would saunter into my room, roger me senseless and then leave. I loved the humiliation of the objectification and rejection. It was nasty, but he was my kind of nasty.

Occasionally on the couple nights with Clare, she'd crack open her strapon, or we'd use the dungeon in Victoria's cellar. But normally, we'd curl up and watch a film, or go bowling, or do something together. We made the most of those occasions because they were so important to us, and our relationship strengthened and blossomed.

The bisexual swingers night at the sex club on the first Thursday of every month got progressively better. Taking my fiancée's strapon at one end, while a dominant bull stuffed my grunting mouth with his slippery prick, in front of hundreds of perverts, was a special experience. Watching Clare orgasm repeatedly on stage, as Victoria strapped a horse-sized replica dildo and pounded her sopping cunt, was another.

So, my lifestyle was incredible. I got more sex than I had ever had in my life and was enjoying it more and more. We knew Iain and Scott very well, but at the Saturday parties, we had regular visitors from cuckolded partners too. The Coach had a spell on women, and the lure of his sexual shenanigans drew several wives and girlfriends to his side and his bedroom. Many husbands found the rampant bisexuality and intensity of the football team too much to handle, but a couple of them attended regularly.

After one such orgy, the Coach visited to the summerhouse with our naked partners, and passed Iain and me invitations to the team's Christmas Party. "Why?" I muttered, still dressed in the sexy black Latex school girl outfit my partner had chosen. "We aren't on the team?"

His eyes narrowed to a scowl and his giant paw thundered onto my bare shoulder, squeezing it until it hurt. "Of course, you'all part of my team," he roared. "All of you! You all have your jobs looking after my lads." I glanced at Martin and he just nodded, deferentially thanking the muscular beast.

The timetable of the event was that after the team's last game, three days before Christmas, they would have a muted afternoon of booze and buggery at the summerhouse. The following lunchtime on Sunday, the minibuses would pick them up and they would go to their booked hotel to have a relaxed afternoon, and then dress in their smart clothes for the festive party.

Martin and I would attire and prepare ourselves and travel with Victoria and Clare to the venue. My room-mate was excited and a little coy about the event. "It'll be fun," was the description he gave, and he didn't open up further until I had attended to his morning glory and kissed it to a spurting orgasm. "The guys are a great laugh. It's light-hearted. You'll love it. Plenty of sex. You will be damn well used."

Martin had introduced me to the lady who kept his body glabrous, and I visited the Helen, the Magical Waxing Witch, the week before the Christmas party, who smoothed my skin in under an hour.

I helped Martin at the supermarket and we filled the kitchenette with unhealthy party food and topped up the alcohol stocks. Hauling over £400 of booze from Martin's car was sweaty work, and after lunch, I douched, plugged and showered myself. Clare's eyes sparkled when I emerged from the shower. "What's up?" I asked.

"You look so sexy," she muttered. "Hairless really suits you. Especially with a pink plug in!" She held out three bags and told me to take one. "It's your outfit."

Stockings. Thigh-high woollen white stockings with two navy rings around the top. She giggled as I stood in front of her, my cock prominent. We kissed, passionately, and I wanted to drag her to the ladder when Martin coughed behind me. "Sorry," he replied. "But they'll be here in thirty minutes."

My fiancée laughed. "I know! But I can enjoy myself teasing." She giggled as she passed Martin his bag. "My fiancé had it doggy-style last week. He won't get cunt again until next year!" I blushed; it was a rare moment of traditional fucking. "Access to pussy is not what cucks receive too often," she explained. "It makes them expect it!"

"I know," Martin moaned, and his attention turned to the flimsy feminine black stocking in his bag. "I've not had any of Victoria's pussy since March the Ninth," he grumbled. "That's 289 days ago. It's an eternity. But I got to cream your husband yesterday. He has a fine ass!"

I blushed as my fiancée laughed. "You're more of a slut for cock than I am!" She added and was probably right. "How many dicks have you had since Sunday?"

I pondered for a moment - Scott (twice), Iain, Martin (thrice) and the takeaway driver on Monday. "Two," I lied. She shook her head and looked away.

"I'm on four. But one of those cocks was you. You clearly need to be naughtier!" She peered down her nose at me, waited for a few seconds and whispered in my ear. "Those CCTV cameras - in this room, in your bedroom and in the bathroom are all hooked up so I can see what are you doing. And who you are doing." I gulped. "Do you want to stop lying to your fiancée?"

"You don't count Martin, do you? He's... ummm..."

"And the pizza delivery guy? And Scott! And his boyfriend!"

"I forgot about them," I muttered, unconvincingly, and my beau sniggered.

"I will make an appointment with you in the week in Victoria's dungeon, and we can use the riding crop to teach you to count," she warned, and turned away from me to walk up the garden path, shaking her butt seductively in her short dress as she sashayed towards the house and the hot-tub.

"She is sexy," Martin muttered as we ogled the seductress. "I know she's your fiancée but, damn, she's a fine piece of ass. And no underwear, too. Not even a G-String. That's a damn fine look."

"We aren't wearing any underwear and I don't think of that as a great look!" He laughed.

"I'd fuck you, just as I'd love to fuck Clare. Underwear or no underwear." He smiled at me and left me still ogling my captivating lover provocatively wandering towards the hot-tub.

We both slid on the heated wooden floor in our thigh-high hosiery as we prepared for the afternoon orgy. The stockings weren't designed to provide extensive grip, but I took a moment to admire myself in the bathroom full-length mirror. Smooth skin, shimmering slightly under the glare of the spotlights, with a lithe body and muscular legs encased in white woollen stockings. I was certainly not the worst catch in the world.

Iain, with his mop of unruly brown hair and cheeky laugh, was the last to arrive. We passed him the spare bag from Clare and his eyes bulged when he took out the red Latex stockings. "I love rubber!" He roared and then had to use the talc in the bathroom to slide the shiny hosiery to the tops of his thighs.

Winter had certainly taken hold outside, and just before the team arrived, the weather turned. Rain lashed against the insulated wooden structure relentlessly, providing a soothing backdrop to our wait.

Two minutes after we removed our plugs, we felt the vibrations of the large minibus pull up outside the summerhouse. Martin welcomed them in - except Ray, Jordan and Theo, who the coach directed to the house. "Scott hit a hat-trick today, Wes and Ryan got one."

"How many did the team score?"

"Eight," Scott replied with a grin and threw his kit bag underneath the table at the back of the room.

"Eight!" I squealed, and the thought of all that pee sloshing around my mouth caused me to shudder. "Why aren't you at the main house if you got three goals?"

"Because I wanted to come to the summerhouse," he replied with a smirk. "I like to see Iain getting reamed by big cocks! And... I sort of feel bad about fucking your bird, man. We're... mates!"

"That makes no sense! You know I am cool with it."

Scott gave me a twisted expression, and I understood. "I can't, OK?" He whispered. "I just can't."

"Cider?" I asked.

"Of course!"

"And I want a Guinness!" Tom demanded.

The vast television, which was showing a hotly anticipated game, captured their attention. There were twelve footballers, brimming with testosterone, and full of excited spirits, and the three submissives waited on the bawdy players with pleasure.

Except Scott, all the other three men on the front row had fucked my fiancée in the previous two weeks. "She came like a fucking rocket when I hammered my prick in her," the tall figure of Anthony told me as he took his colourful drink. They loved to openly discuss the merits of our partners. I think they wanted to humiliate and embarrass us further, but I had a high threshold for such discussion.

"She's a slut for anal. A fucking whore doesn't do what she does. Begged me to give it to her. Fucking begged me!" The bald-headed, Isaac added in his common drawl. "She loves it up the booty as much as her gay husband!"

I blushed, and the young midfielder, with barely a handful of games to his name, slapped my bare backside. "Get her to wrap her lips around your balls, man! Something special."

"Nuttin' better than pussy!"

"You need to do her ass." Isaac looked at me. "Does she let you stick it in her ass?" I blushed again. "Or does she stick it in yours?" I stuttered.

"Sissy!" Perhaps I was. My cheeks burnt and I was relieved that the Spurs striker lashed the ball home to briefly steal their attention away from me and my sexual tendencies.

"Of course he takes her cock," Scott replied, after the replay and dragging the talk back to my sexuality. "I've seen it. He's a size queen!"

"I'm not!" I squealed in a higher pitch than I had expected or wanted. "I like... all cocks."

Scott's eyes fell on Iain, with his tongue deep between Wes's butt cheeks. "Now he is a total slut!" Scott added. "How is he, Wes?"

"Marvellous!" The reply came. "'e's had practice!"

"Too fuckin' right," Scott replied, downing his drink and holding his empty glass out to me. "Same again, Sissy Husband!"

I made them all another round of drinks, returning to their row of seats with a full tray of clinking glasses. The room was thick with debauchery: the sounds, sights of smells of rutting athletes skewering Iain and Martin carried over the end-to-end football match.

The sports were a side-show. Using cucks was the main event, and the gentlemen on my row were more entertained with Martin sliding his lips over the impressive figure of Ryan, while the powerful thighs of Cameron lanced my groaning room-mate with wild abandon.

Anthony's eyebrows flicked upwards the moment he took his rum from my drinks tray. I nodded and dropped to the floor before slowly sliding the navy sweatpants to his ankles.

Every inch of him oozed power. His sparkling dark chocolate skin wrapped tightly around the pulsing, well-defined muscles. His body language exuded confidence and his facial expression demanded compliance.

But mostly his masculine scent, that swirled around him, seized my attention. A potent, manful sweat caused by fitful exertion that amplified his power and his virility. His dominance, given by the supremacy of his alpha status, captivated and entranced me. My lips touched the end of his erect dick. Hairless magnificence that jutted proudly towards my face. I sucked gently on the tip, feeling a rush of excitement power surge through my balls and my body.

He grunted in enjoyment, I moaned in lust. His deliciously sapid pre-cum danced across my tongue as I massaged the sensitive head of his cock.

Anthony always made me feel more submissive. He loomed over me with his statuesque figure and his impressive physique. The thick prick was a delicious treat to all my senses as it filled my mouth and tickled my gag reflex.

But mostly, Anthony let me do all the work. He didn't thrust his cock into my throat, or hold my head to force me, because he didn't need to. He was in control.

My cock bobbed as I fellated him. My horniness rose as my lips met my fist wrapping the base of his thick meat.

He moaned and whispered. The surrounding guys yelled and hollered, telling me I was "dirty" and "slutty" and demanding that I took "his big cock!" My left hand swirled around his balls, and I pressed against his perineum. My lips danced over the thick, purple head and my tongue teased his piss slit.

His body tensed, and he grunted as his prick blasted cum into me - a delicious blend of salty sweetness that dribbled out of the corner of my mouth as I frantically milked his prick.

I was a slut. I was acting like a porn star actress in a cheap porno film as I desperately demanded every drop of his creamy cum between my lips. He tapped me on the forehead, sated.

I wasn't. I moved to the next guy on the row - young midfielder Tom, who had only joined the team a few weeks previous and had barely got off the substitutes' bench.

He never hindered me or offered any objections, as I tugged at his flimsy shorts, and buried my face in his trimmed crotch. My hands pushed his thighs further apart as my lips swallowed his flaccid cock, sucking gently.

He gulped and sighed as my tongue brought his prick to its fullest length, working on the head of his fat dick. And it was a thick, meaty specimen that he buried in my throat so my nose nestled into his smattering of pubic fuzz.

He wasn't gentle. The nineteen-year-old midfielder wrapped his hands around my head and ground into my mouth with frenzied lust. Zealous, febrile fucking, that showcased his alpha-male credentials.

"Look at our younger bro!" Jamie called, and I felt more eyes land on our show. "He's really going for it! Go on, Tom!"

Tom panted and squealed, ramming his thick cock over my tongue. No respite, no pause for breath. Just pure unadulterated lust from the rampant teenager.

With a grunt, he pulled his prick from his mouth, jacked his prick fervently and squirted several ropes of cum over my face.

My cheeks burnt as I felt his seed land across me, and I instinctively wiped my skin clear of the goo. "Lick it!" he demanded and guffawed as I swept my tongue over my glazed fingers. "Wash your hands and get me a Guinness."

I brought them a round of drinks and briefly got to watch the tattooed pair of Stan and Parker spit-roasting a grunting Martin. The two bodyart lovers were two of the eldest players at the club and weren't much younger than the middle-aged host.

But they possessed incredible bodies. Most of the guys had admirable physiques, but the muscular athleticism, combined with the intricate pictures on their flesh, made them especially impressive.

Martin had already orgasmed once. The weighty prick of Parker had slammed against Martin's prostate too much, and the bisexual cuckold had leaked cum.

Iain was sprawled across a stool with his arse in the air, as Wes prepared to mount Scott's boyfriend. The beefy black defender possessed an amazingly long prick that I loved to play with, and Iain groaned as the head of Wes's massive schlong parted his hole with ease.

Isaac took his beer from my tray and lowered his tracksuit bottoms to his ankles. "Suck it, slut!" He was the nephew of the coach and, from what Scott had confided in me one evening, was not a very good player. He had to be content with occasional substitute appearances.

Whatever talents he lacked on the football pitch, there was no denying the dominance off of it. The bulky black bald-headed man in his mid-twenties grunted aggressively, grabbed my ears and pulled me onto his sweaty, manly prick.

Fully erect, hairless and sizzling with masculinity. I smelt the muskiness of Isaac's cock and the sweat from his smooth balls, which powered my horniness. My lips closed around his shaft, and I relaxed my throat muscles to take his full length.

Then I felt a hand on my thighs, pulling me backwards. A finger rolled around my anus. Lubricating my entrance, preparing me as I deep-throated the grunting Isaac.

The head of Scott's dick gently slid into my exposed hole. I loved the rhythm of his prick, grinding slowly against my flesh, gradually filling me. He had practice. He knew how to fuck me.

I grunted into the weighty cock of Isaac, who grabbed my wrists and held them against the arms of his chair. I had been pinned, but wanted to go nowhere. This was my slice of heaven.