The Summerhouse Ch. 10: Danny

The Coach set Clare, Victoria and a few of the other members of his harem a little challenge into the New Year. The weather was cold and wet, the excitement of the festive break had long since evaporated, and the team restarted the two-horse race at the top of the division, with just three points separating the clubs.

The clash between the runaway leaders was the key game of the season. The away match in September - the first meeting between Ashfield Rangers and Wythenshawe Wanderers - was an even encounter as the pair battled to a 2-2 draw. The return match was scheduled for late January and was one that the Mancunian club could not afford to lose. One of the coach's younger entourage had discovered where their lead striker regularly drank, and the coach enlisted Sean's wife to trap him.

Danny was a swashbuckling, egotistical and cocksure Mancunian, with a boyband haircut in his brown hair and a terrible work ethic. He was also as monogamous as a porn star, which was the angle the Coach used.

Little Amy worked her lines perfectly. The seductress entertained the potent poacher with regular abundance after an initial meeting in a local bar in the centre of Wythenshawe before Christmas. Her "car had broken down" and she had the other half of a double room at the local Travelodge. She designed her short dress and flirty attitude to ensnare him, and the striker was putty in the scheming tart's hands.

After which, regular trips to the cheap hotel followed, often accompanied by another of Coach David's female acquaintances. Danny brought along a couple more of the team for "company" with rampant fucking and complete debauchery on the menu.

This was leading up to the "big one."

Amy's offer was perfect: she told him that her friend was hosting a party. An upper-class hedonistic orgy. Plenty of filthy socialites, lots of free booze, and a local taxi firm owed her a favour. She could bring her favourite footballer, and his friends, from Wythenshawe to Victoria's country estate for a drunken sexual rampage at zero cost to the footballer.

The only catch was that the party was hours before the midday game against Ashfield Rangers. Even Danny pondered the offer for a while: his club had ordered their players to rest, lay off the booze and have an early night the evening before the key match. Alas, the promise of unlimited alcohol and classy married cunt was too alluring. A few minutes before 8pm, a taxi-load of horny footballers descended on the summerhouse.

Martin and I had spent the day swapping most of the summerhouse's armchairs with furniture from Victoria's fuck-dungeon, one giant bed, and a couple of chaise-lounges. A handful of toys and implements were available if the party needed it.

Victoria and Coach David invited a dozen "bulls" who were given the same offer as Danny - booze and sex for the evening. They had also been told to do whatever they could to ensure the marks imbibed as much alcohol as possible.

There were six girls, dressed in seductive, short dresses. My fiancée was in navy blue fishnet, Amy in a sheer crimson sarong and Victoria in black Latex. Other wives were similarly dressed in clothes they could not wear in public. All were ready and waiting to service the men.

I was one of the four waiters in "stripper" outfits: short black aprons that showed our bare butts, and bow ties. Our remit was to ply booze to the partygoers. Singles were banned and even doubles risked a firm spanking. Apart from the cucks, we were instructed to ensure that no man left the timber fuck palace sober.

The evening was barely a moment old when I watched a beach-blonde tattooed player slide his hand up my fiancée's short dress and openly ply her bald pussy. Clare cooed at his muscular frame under his tight white T-shirt. "Amy," she called. "I do like your friends."

The bubbly blonde giggled and slid her hand into Danny's jeans. "He promised us seven extra cocks for tonight," she announced and felt his crotch.

"Yeah, I got ya seven dicks." There was a nervousness to his words as he brashly spoke. This was not his usual environment, especially when "Lady" Newby introduced herself while wearing just a bracelet and a smile.

The alcohol flowed. Cheap sparkling white wine, served in champagne flutes, would have fooled no one else in the room, but the seven footballers gulped at the fizzy drink with abandon. Glasses refilled and replaced, followed by cocktails and beer and spirits.

Temperatures rose. Raised voices accompanied naked bodies. The more confident marks couldn't wait and pawed at the smorgasbord of luscious ladies. My cock strained as I watched them all. I loved the sights, sounds, and smells of rampant debauchery. The rubber of clothes and condoms, fierce exertion, slapping flesh, groans of ecstasy and cum. My lips drooled.

I saw horny men spit-roast my fiancée several times. Desperate rutting men, thrusting into my woman, causing her to grunt and groan passionately. The pasty Drew ground his cock into her moaning mouth as the tanned Lorenzo speared her dripping cunt.

A scene repeated throughout the room. Seven footballers, a dozen bulls and just six wives. Six women to service untold horniness and testosterone.

"Suck my balls."

"Lick my shaft."

"Spread your legs."

"I'm having your butt."

Not a word of "please" uttered. Not a single request, but demands. Powerful men seized the wanton women to satisfy their animalistic desires.

I watched Clare with half an eye and counted her orgasms. The cheeky minx laughed as man after man spilt cum and alcohol over her naked body while she shuddered from the repeated climaxes.

My fiancée was the centre of attention, whilst being fucked in front of her lover. This touched every aspect of her sexuality. Danny roared when he realised I was her partner and that the bald-headed 45-year-old was the husband of 23-year-old Amy.

"This cock just fucked your bitch and your bitch!" He said loudly.

"Boys," Clare cooed. "Perhaps you should kiss his magnificent prick to show your gratitude." Danny shivered at the prospect, grunting something derogatory. The beach-blonde tattooed player, called Louis, was less homophobic. He withdrew his prick from Amy's mouth and summoned Sean.

I envied the submissive waiter. His lips closed around the hairless cock and slowly bobbed up and down on the muscle-clad athlete's dick. He took care, lavishing and worshipping the superior masculinity with his tongue.

Sean's cock leaked. It always did when he gave head and sent his bisexual side into overdrive. His trophy wife lay next to him and stroked his buttcheeks as he supped the stout prick of the Mancunian Adonis. Chiselled stomach with a six pack to rival any athlete. Strong, bulging leg muscles and a hairless, inked body to drive anyone wild with desire. Sean was in paradise. And Louis wasn't far behind. Every slurp and pull on the footballer's dick was a heavenly act that brought him closer and closer to the edge.

Louis squealed, grabbed his cock, jerked it a few strokes and spewed several waves of cum over the accountant's expectant face. "Now kiss your husband," Louis ordered Amy and watched her debase herself.

My attention turned to the corner of the room where Victoria and Danny sat opposite each other. "Vodka," Danny answered.

"My Sambuca."

Martin lined a row of eight shot glasses up in front of each of them, and he passed me a bottle of High Street spirit. "Pour Danny's."

Eight shots of grain vodka on the containers in front of him. Martin poured two for his wife and then had to open a fresh bottle to complete the chain.

Both Victoria and her opponent breezed through the first few; the clear liquids downed with impressive speed. Bawdy cheering, interspersed with fucking and rampant debauchery, filled the room. Danny struggled on his fifth shot and swayed badly after his sixth.

Victoria looked directly at him as she finished her final dram. "C'mon then. Lightweight?"

"I ain't ... a light ... weight." His body wobbled as his trembling hands picked up the seventh glass, which he spilt as much on his chin as he poured down his mouth. The laughter was cruel. He slumped and watched Victoria casually down his final glass, coughing as the harsh vodka burnt her throat.

"Water?" I whispered to Martin, and he smiled at me.

"Aniseed cordial."

"Nice," I muttered. Clare repeated the trick on the mop-haired, profanity-laden Jacob, who slumped moments later on an armchair.

"Hey," a posh voice called and one of Victoria's friends held out a colourful cocktail to Lorenzo, with more fruit than a market stall. I detected Sean's handiwork, and as the sweet scarlet drink tumbled past his lips, Lady Newby slipped between them and blew on Lorenzo's prick.

She was a delicate artist: she charmed his cock to an erection with soft strokes with her tongue. Gentle, enticing, effective. He grunted into his cerise cocktail and leant against the wall as the posh totty fellated him.

At 10pm, an extensive selection of pizzas arrived. I had to walk to the back alley wearing just my apron; the driver was not surprised. We knew the local takeaway company well, and they always sent the same guy to our address. I offered the young man his usual tip, but he had to decline. He didn't have the time.

Fifteen twelve-inch pizzas went a long way, and if Victoria could not entice all seven players to leave her den of vice completely inebriated, then stuffed was the next best choice. The Wythenshawe Wanderer's alcohol tolerance surprised me, but we kept plying them with more and more drinks that they gleefully accepted.

A few had dropped - Danny, Jacob and Drew slumped on the bed - not quite understanding the surrounding commotion. Victoria retrieved a couple of black permanent markers from the kitchen. She gave one to a tall, dark-haired player who had screwed Lady Newby and Amy.

"What shall I write?"

Martin took the other pen and wrote "Cocks Here" on Danny's lower back with two arrows pointing towards his butt.

"Wicked," a voice called. "What about Faggot?"

"Loser?"

"Cocksucker?"

"Bitch? Cum Dump? Piss Drinker? Tiny Cock?"

Andre graffitied an ejaculating cock over his teammate's back and Martin daubed offensive and humiliating words on Drew. Martin and I dressed the three men, so they wouldn't notice the abusive remarks when they woke from their alcoholic stupor.

By twelve, the party started to wind down. Many of the guys were sexed out, and a lesbian display with Amy and Clare was delightfully erotic but coaxed no more footballing cocks into erections. They had all had at least four orgasms in three hours, and there were limits. Sean passed glasses of bright gold, iridescent pearl, lucent cobalt and bubblegum cocktails.

I leant on the wall next to the naked Andre. "T'at really your bird?" He asked, watching Clare and Amy sixty-nine each other on the bed with wild abandon. "You're lucky!"

"I'm not the one getting any sex tonight," I reminded him. "Victoria fucked me with her strapon earlier and I've had a mouthful of cum, but I've not got laid."

"What's it like?" He asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. "To be ..."

"Bisexual?" I suggested.

"No, fucked?"

"It's good," I muttered, and nodded towards the ladder that led to our bedroom. "Men have prostates."

"But ..." The roar behind us stopped him in mid-reply. One of Victoria's well-endowed friends had entered my girl as she performed cunnilingus on her friend.

I tapped him lightly on his buttcheeks and gestured once more to the ladder. He wordlessly and subtly edged to the bedroom, unnoticed by anyone else except Martin.

Unlike half his teammates, there was nothing vain about Andre. His hair was short, rather than styled. No tattoos, or body-piercings adorned his skin, and his muscular frame was subtle definition and not an eye-catching six-pack. "I like it when my girlfriend sticks a finger up there," he admitted, still in a low voice. "But it hurts after a while, y'know."

"Dildo?"

"I'm not a fag," he snapped and looked away from me, before muttering a half-hearted apology. I opened the nearest drawer underneath my bed and withdrew a couple of anal toys, some lubricant and a pack of condoms. His eyes widened.

There was silence between us, punctuated by the roaring, cheering and hollering from below. "I took a small dildo, sheathed it in a condom and smeared translucent lubricant along the shaft. "Turn around."

He was too mesmerised to argue. The alcohol served as Dutch Courage. His stiff cock spoke volumes as I squirted cool lube over his rosebud and worked the goo into his butthole.

"Relax," I told him. "Just go with it." He groaned as the tip of the smallest dildo replaced my finger and I pressed gently, slowly inserting the bulging buttplug into him.

He grunted as it filled him. I tapped the base to send vibrations into his rectum and the tall footballer groaned. "Good, yes?"

He nodded, not looking at me, as his loins tensed and relaxed. I rubbed lubricant over my hands and slowly toyed with his stiff prick. He grunted gutturally. I knew that this was his fantasy, and he was scaring himself how much he was enjoying it. He wanted to explore, but was too scared to do so.

"Let's go up to a dildo," I told him, unfurling a condom over the realistic-looking cock and balls rubber dong. Six inches, no more. His eyes widened.

"That's ... a prick. I'm not ..."

"You'll enjoy it, I'll be gentle. Trust me," I replied bashfully and dripped lubricant over the condom-clad fake schlong. Our eyes met, and he placed his hands on the wooden floor of the bedroom and presented me with his backside.

He wanted it. He needed it. The eager butt slut groaned as I gently unplugged him and pressed the blunt head of the slippery dildo against his hole.

"It's big," he panted. "It's really big."

"No, it's not," I replied and gently rubbed his arse with my left hand. Patting him and reassuring him with soft mutterings. He was doing well, but he wanted it. He wanted to take all of it.

Deep down, he did. As his ass slowly gobbled each inch, his cock bobbed a bit more. Pre-cum leaked onto the wooden floor and his ragged breathing was replaced by gasps and moans.

The first time, I slid the dildo in and out of his backside was an epiphany. I knew how he felt, because I had had the same experience and dawning realisation that anal play was incredible. The delightful feeling of submissiveness, prostate pressure, an intense warmth and an all-consuming horniness.

A gentle rhythm wasn't enough. Undulating strokes satisfied only so much as he bucked his waist. "Harder," he muttered. "Faster."

My arm ached as I tried to oblige. His gasping was louder than the rough fucking downstairs and with a final grunt, he pushed himself forward and his cock spasmed to squirt pre-cum. The dry orgasm made his legs twitch and shiver.

I felt emboldened. I tore open another condom and rolled down my stiff prick underneath my apron. Lubricant drizzled over my cock.

He knew what I had done the moment the dildo was removed from his gaping hole. He sighed as my dick replaced the rubber dong.

I was taking my pleasure by fucking the alpha-male. Something I had never done before. I was stealing his anal virginity, but Andre was desperate for me to do so.

My hands closed around Andre's waist and I pivoted my prick into his willing backside. If the dildo was enlightenment, then this fucking was raw Nirvana. He muttered and gasped every time I pounded my cock into him.

For me, this ferocious pummelling was the result of four hours of desperate teasing. Continual humiliation. Watching endless amounts of sex and debauchery had raised my arousal to near-desperation. Andre was my outlet.

I felt his hands grip his cock, and he matched every thrust into him with a stroke on his leaking manhood. We both grunted and groaned. I could feel the muscles in his ass contract against my prick, and I could smell his masculinity as I fucked him.

He came before me. He sighed and gasped moments after his butt closed around my manhood, spearing into him. Tightening the slippery grip on the intruding cock. That was enough to bring me to orgasm, filling the condom with several waves of my climax.

He said nothing as we disconnected. He barely looked at me as he saw the fruits of our fucking. The cum splattered across his fingers and the floor, proof that he had climaxed.

His fantasy, realised. And that scared him. Fear and excitement in his eyes. "Get your girlfriend a strapon," I told him, and passed him a roll of toilet tissue to clean himself. "It's not the same as a dick, but you'll like it." He hummed, unsure of what to say. He muttered some thanks and got to the hatch to descend the stairs. "And Andre, cute buns!"

He blushed as he disappeared from view and I tidied up the evidence of our sex session.

I watched as one-by-one the gentlemen and ladies left the summerhouse to get into taxis. The old, decrepit minibus that Amy had ordered arrived last, and we had to help a couple of the drunken lads into the rusting vehicle. "You owe me, Missus," the bald-headed driver barked at Sean's wife.

"Your wife is out tomorrow, right?" Amy said with twinkling eyes. "I'll pop round and give you a 'massage' at two?" He nodded at this offer.

"Where was Andre when Clare got her camera out?" Martin asked as the taxi pulled out of the track. "He missed the photo."

"What photo?"

"The Coach asked us to take a photo of all the players undressed and pissed," Martin told me. "He has an account he is going to tweet it from, to Wythenshawe Wanderers tomorrow. We had Danny throwing his guts up in the bog."

"Ahh well," I said, blushing. "I was making a man of him."

"The gaffer'll love that."

"I bet he will."

Martin looked at the mess in his summerhouse and shook his head. "Let's tidy this up tomorrow, I'm knackered."

We woke early and cleaned the lodge from top to bottom; Clare and Victoria were keen to watch the football, and we watched Wythenshawe Wanderers take an absolute pasting. I hadn't been to see many of Ashfield Rangers matches, but I had worked so hard to give Scott and Co an advantage, I thought it would be an enjoyable spectacle.

Two of the seven footballers were completely absent. I guessed Jacob's and Drew's hangovers were so severe, they never made it to the game. Four were on the bench. Danny had his head in his hands, as he watched the makeshift team splutter and stumble against the better opposition. The only person who played was Andre.

His game wasn't flawless, but he was one of their stronger players, marauding up and down the left wing and delivering crosses that Danny's replacement never converted. He drank less than the other seven, and the impact on his body was clearly not as dramatic.

He spotted me in the crowd at Full Time and came over to the side of the pitch. I said nothing to Clare as I walked to the front of the terrace to speak to him. "My Twitter handle is RedAndy96. PM me."

"Was that the guy you fucked?" Clare asked me, whispering into my ear as he strutted back to the changing room. "Good choice. Great legs."

I looked at her, and we kissed. "He screwed you," I replied. "So all you need to do is fuck me and there's a circle."

"That can be arranged!"

Given our exploits the night before, the Coach did not bring a bunch of horny victors to the summerhouse; this was a shame as they had won 5-0, but everyone was tired and just wanted to relax.

The following day, our wives enjoyed the manager of the landscaping firm which Martin paid to maintain the sprawling gardens. The 57-year-old widower joined them in the tub and ploughed into their sopping cunts.

It was a nice day, so I spent time with Scott while Clare cuckolded me once more; the footballer was a keen cyclist, and I used my road bike to join him on a ride. I could keep up with his pace, despite his greater fitness, due to his aged, heavy bike with the thick steel frame. I enjoyed socialising the cheeky winger; he was personable and good company and our friendship was not always about sex.