I had planned to travel to Manchester after work on Friday, but a major accident closed the motorway, so I delayed my journey until Saturday. Because, I overslept, it was nearly lunchtime when I left, and I arrived at the Cheshire mansion just under an hour before “the start.” Clare rushed me to the bottom of the garden, where our hosts had erected the largest wooden log cabin I had ever seen.
The dark brown wooden structure was easily twelve metres wide, and looked just as deep, was as big as some houses; they had decked the front in double-glazed windows that showed a vast space within. Victoria’s naked husband welcomed me and presented me with an article of clothing.
I swore as he handed me the black garment. “You must be …” I added in exclamation, and he snorted in derision.
“This isn’t bad at all. This is … tame!” The ruffle layered shorts, topped with a giant bow on the waistband at the back, were flimsy and feminine, and he laughed as I turned them over in my hand. “We haven’t got long. They’ll be here soon.”
“Just put them on,” Martin snapped, a little exasperated. “Victoria selects what we wear. Last week it was a chastity cage and a French Maid uniform. She’s been nice today because it’s your first visit! I’ll get you some lunch, and there’s a douching kit in the bathroom.”
He prodded me towards a 4m square tiled room that had a toilet, shower and sink, and a couple of large chests. On top of a trunk, Martin had left an unopened enema bulb in a sealed plastic bag, and I used it to rinse my butt clean. I slid the ruffled boyshorts over my smooth, bare body. I had never felt so exposed as I stood, barefoot and half-naked in the central space of his summer house.
The pine lodge was Martin’s pride and joy. The main room was was over 12m long and 8m wide, and was two-thirds of the square cabin. A projector lit up the entirety of one wall, and the hardcore pornography filled the chamber with the blackout blinds over the windows. Martin had arranged a dozen spacious, comfy leather armchairs in three rows, as well as a handful of stools, three large puffies and two black leather sofas.
The back of the log cabin had been divided into two areas – a bathroom, and a kitchenette. Above those rooms, a vertical ladder reached a loft space, which Martin called “his bedroom.”
I was amazed at the amount of alcohol Martin had in his floor to ceiling fridge in the small kitchen. “Three different types of lager, ale, cider.” He said gesturing at the shelves full of bottles. “Snacks are here. All the guys have their favourites. We have vodka for shots too. Whisky for Jay, Luis, and Ricky. Rum for Paolo.”
“You remember all this?” I asked.
Martin’s eyes twinkled and nodded. “You don’t want to get Ricky’s drink wrong. You won’t forget it again.”
“Is there a list?”
Martin shrugged. “I know it. Kyle knows it when he is here. Chris knows it when he comes. We soon learn what the guys prefer. They’ll often tell you anyway what they want, but it’s good to remember.” He showed me where he kept the plastic drinks containers in the kitchen and exhibited two trunks of sex toys in the bathroom, as well as the collapsed massage table in the main room. I felt like he had avoided something. There were secrets he hadn’t explained.
I didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to understand why there were bottles of personal lubricant secreted on eight shelves in the main area, alongside butt-plugs and condoms, or the CCTV cameras in every room, but I felt there was something he was not telling me.
I didn’t know what the secrets were. I didn’t know what to ask. Martin, and his associates, were much further along the bisexual cuckolding route than I was with Clare. He knew this, but Victoria had suggested that we join them for their weekly session – rarely cancelled – and that I was “ready.” My “wild time” with Benji and his friends was “proof” of this.
Clare giggled when she relayed this comment to me, but she would not detail what the afternoon completely entailed. Other than, Victoria’s friend would bring his footballers to the log cabin to watch a live stream of the football match. He would take the best performing players into the house to fuck Victoria, Clare, and any other woman present, while the cuckolds would wait and serve on the rest of the team. Martin warned me there may be some cum spilt, and that it wouldn’t be mine.
We felt the vibrations of the vehicle’s motor before we heard anything. Martin glanced at the clock on the wall and smiled. “A few minutes early,” he remarked. “They must be keen. They always are when there are new holes.”
“New holes?” I squealed. Martin pulled me to my feet and held open the door to the summerhouse. A few moments later, the door slammed on a minibus on the track behind Martin’s property and the beefy black man cockily strode through the gate.
“Coach,” Martin muttered deferentially, and I realised he was the man who had impaled Clare the week before. He was bahis şirketleri over fifty years of age, but his robust, stout, muscular body, and domineering look oozed power and control.
“Only got eight of my boys today. A few of them have tickets for the Manchester derby later. They’ve taken the train in.” He chuckled at Martin’s expression and waved his finger. Martin twirled and the dominant bull admired the ruffled shorts of the millionaire cuckold. “Theo. Devon. Wes. You’ve earned pussy!” He looked at me as he spoke, and my eyes widened as three muscular black men broke from the small gathering of footballers behind him. “They are going to stretch your wife’s cunt,” he told me with a chuckle. “And play with her in the hot-tub. Does that make you hard?”
I blushed. Of course it did. And when I didn’t answer, there was a cruel snort from his nose. “You white cucks are all the same. Look after my boys, treat them well,” he demanded. “Oh, and it was Ray and Scott that got the goals.” He winked and Martin, and with a swagger, strode down the path, heading across the manicured lawn.
The remaining footballers, in their navy football club tracksuits, filed towards us.
“Anthony,” Martin said deferentially, as a ripped black muscular beast sauntered past him. I guessed he was in his early twenties, but he said nothing as we welcomed him into the summerhouse. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
Paolo had a Latin American appearance. He’d unzipped his tracksuit top as he proudly displayed his bulging muscles on his short frame.
Jordan ran his hands over the soft shorts adorning the waists of Martin and I. “How did your trial go, Jordan?” Martin asked, with the demeanour of an interested butler.
Jordan beamed. “Excellent. They’ll let me know. I did good in the game at the end. And I caught up with another guy’s bird afterwards. She could do amazing things with balls.” He chuckled, slapped Martin on the backside, and sauntered into the wooden lodge.
Martin smiled and nodded at the next player in line. “You had a trial too, didn’t you, Ray?”
“Next week,” a tall mixed-race man replied gruffly as he strode into the warm summerhouse.
“Scott,” a wiry thin footballer in his early twenties said, introducing himself. “Star winger, goalscorer and top fuck merchant. And you’re going to be sucking my cock in about twenty minutes.” He smiled as he spoke in his Newcastle accent with a cheeky grin. “I’ve not had a fuck for three days and t’ese balls have some cum to drop in a slut. Y’know?”
“Shall we get some beers in and get you comfortable, then?” Martin suggested. The pornography on the projector had changed to an illegal live stream of a Premier League match, and the five football players had settled into the large leather armchairs in the front two rows.
“Anthony has an American lager. It has to be super cold, so take it from the back of the fridge. Scott has a scrumpy cider. He gets so pissed on those. And so randy when he’s drunk. Be careful with him, he’ll fuck with your mind and your butt.”
On the worktop Martin lined up five plastic tankards. I grabbed the drinks he had told me and poured them into the first two vessels.
Anthony and Scott had sat next to each other on the second row, and they took their refreshments with a courteous nod of the head. “Pizza, nuts, crisps, chips,” Anthony barked at me, and he unzipped his top.
This was how the first thirty minutes of the match went for me. As the game developed and Arsenal mounted attack after attack, I waited on Scott and Anthony. I cooked the pizzas in the small oven and served at their beck and call.
When I wasn’t refilling their glasses or replenishing their plates, I lingered by the side of the room. A mere click of the finger was all what they needed to summon me.
Martin was busier. He had three men to service, and they were rowdy and bawdy. He never got a moment of rest as he scurried back and forth to the kitchen.
Shortly after Arsenal fell behind, Ray pushed his tracksuit bottoms to his knees. Martin’s eyes widened. He glanced at me and then stared at the crotch of the mixed-race player.
The moment I heard the tinkle of fluid hitting the vessel, I knew exactly what he had done. I stared transfixed at the laughing man. My cock hardened the instant he presented the half-full tankard of pale-yellow amber liquid to Martin.
I watched in abject horror and intense excitement as his lips touched the warm pee of the leering player. Surely, he would not do what it looked like he was about to do?
Ten seconds. That was all it took for Martin to sink every drop of that pale pee. Every moment taken by laughing, sneering and howling of enjoyment. To degrade the cuckold. To humiliate him. To strip him of dignity.
Martin was “dirty.” He was a “slut.” He was “enjoying it,” and “loved every fucking drop.”
“You can have mine a little later,” Scott whispered in my left ear and caused me to jump in fright. His hand rested bahis firmaları on my ruffled shorts and patted my buttocks. “You know, the goalscorers get to force you to drink their piss. One per goal.”
I gulped. “Oh…”
“Oh yes,” Scott whispered. “You drink it. Or let me put it wherever I want. I scored a hat trick once, and I filled Martin’s butt with piss!” He sniggered and passed me his empty beaker. “Top it up! With cider.”
My hands trembled as I took the glass from him. Fear, excitement, I didn’t know. I had only ever drunk Clare’s waste and never as much as what Ray provided for Martin. It scared me. I’d never been so excited.
I felt almost disappointment when he walked into the small shower and toilet room, and winked at me. It was a mind-fuck. He was teasing and playing with me.
As was Anthony. The short-haired, tall, muscular midfielder. His topless ebony chest glistened from the projector light, and he clicked his fingers at me. His glass was empty.
When I returned with his lager, his tracksuit bottoms were pooled around his ankles. His cock was erect. His expression demanded attention. One glance at his stout prick told me what he wanted.
My heart fluttered once more. I knelt in front of the black athlete and said nothing as my lips closed around the chocolate tip of his rigid dick. Veiny. Long enough to fill my slutty mouth, but not long enough to choke me. He grunted as my mouth slid down his leaking cock.
Pre-cum – glorious, manly, delicious pre-cum – milked onto my tastebuds. An engaging, musky taste of masculinity. I could smell his scented shower gel on his body, as my nose bobbed against his shaven crotch.
I ignored the catcalls and sounds behind me. I felt a drop of cold liquid touch the small of my back, doubtless from the men in the seats in front holding their cold drinks, turning to watch the half-time entertainment.
Nothing had made me as horny as this. I was centre stage in a world of masculinity. I had never felt so powerless and powerful. My tongue circled his frenulum, and my lips sucked on the sensitive head of his cock.
He groaned and grunted. The ebony midfielder’s resolve melted with the luxurious, wet touch of my mouth. His smooth, muscular legs twitched under my hands. My fingers grasped the base of his thick, black cock, and my head bobbed over his delicate cock head, swishing my tongue across his piss slit.
His firm, powerful hands gripped the back of my head and he bucked his hips. He panted, glanced down at me, over his topless, textured body with a dry, dominant smile. He smiled as he grunted. His prick pulsed and the first jet of his thick cum landed on the top of my mouth.
I sucked his squirting dick. I milked every drop of his essence from his spasming cock and swallowed greedily, tasting his strong aroma and overpowering muskiness.
I firmly ran my hand from the base to the tip, squeezing one last creamy pearl from Anthony’s, black meaty dick, before the cock slipped from my mouth.
I looked up to see Martin bobbing on Ray’s firm dick. The lithe mixed-race winger was enjoying Martin’s well-used experienced lips to satisfy his horniness.
Scott didn’t allow me to watch. I wasn’t in the summerhouse to be a voyeur, but to serve – both the alpha athletes and the alcoholic drinks.
The slender, nippy winger fixed me with a stare and spoke in his Geordie accent, ordering me onto my knees, level with his long, thin cock.
Anthony chuckled, now sated. He lent back in his leather armchair to watch my lips touch the circumcised purple tip of the good-natured footballer.
Scott oozed control. His legs wide-apart, his tracksuit bottoms, discarded. His prick stood erect and his hands grasped the back of my head, pulling me down onto his skinny member.
My cock strained at my ruffled panties. My eyes swam with desire as I gobbled every inch of his slender dick, so that it tickled my gag reflex. A delight; I slurped on his leaking prick with gleeful abandon as he rubbed his hands through my hair.
A soft, smooth manhood rising from a smattering of trimmed fuzz. Sapid, musty, manly smell of exertion that tickled my horniness. My fingers danced over his balls and gently encircled the base of his firm prick.
I loved it. I adored every moment that caused him to pant in desperation. I adored slipping my lips over his silky flesh and running my tongue over his rippled frenulum.
I worshipped his cock. Every touch of his prick sent sparks into my crotch. Anthony was the warm-up act. I was sucking Scott’s dick like it was the best thing on the planet.
At that moment it was.
At that moment, my entire world was in front of me. A lustful fog had clouded my brain, and I thought of nothing over than the wonderful svelte dick that I was gleefully leaking pre-cum into my slutty mouth.
Scott groaned and squealed. He encouraged me with humiliating and degrading insults that made my lust rise further. I knew I was a slut. And kaçak bahis siteleri a cocksucker. I knew that my mouth was making the powerful footballer feel fantastic.
That’s what I did. That’s what Martin did. That’s what submissive bisexual cuckolds do. We make alpha males happy.
And Scott was on the brink of cumming. I felt his cock twitch. I heard it in his voice. A resignation that my wanton mouth had drawn that climax from him. He was at the point of no return.
My cock sparkled. Anticipation rose inside of me. I needed it. I desperately needed to feel the first spasm. I doubled down, licking the underside of his cock as my lips massaged the purple head of his smooth, supple dick.
He panted, grunted, and his prick trembled. “Fuck … I’m … Oh Shit!”
Not one wave or two, but several surges of his seed fired into me. I never stopped. I continued to gently knead his cock with my lips, drawing every drop of cum from Scott. Caressing every last spark of enjoyment from him.
He patted the top of my head, and ran his hands through my hair, gasping for breath as I looked up at the near-naked footballer.
“Scrumpy and pizza, ya fuckin’ fag!” He said, with a smile.
I served all five footballers drinks and snacks while Martin lapped at Paolo’s stiff member. The man was a serious athlete – hardly a pound of fat anywhere on his highly toned Mediterranean body, and I felt envious.
My blood was up. I would happily service every single one of those horny footballers. I wanted more. I needed more. I eyed Jordan, the team’s poacher, and he looked at me.
“Well, it ain’t gonna suck itself.” I needed no more encouragement and placed two hands either side of Jordan’s waist to slide the tracksuit bottoms to his ankles. “He’s fuckin’ eager!”
I was eager. And every other insult he threw at me. I didn’t care, they only made me hornier. I wrapped my lips around his cock, bobbing free. A thick, meaty prick with a bulbous purple head. Shaved, too. And delicious.
He tasted of domination. He smelt of man. He exuded power. As he should have done.
“Faster, bitch. The game’s starting.”
I bobbed, quicker and quicker, on Jordan’s weighty member. I grunted as his cock swept through my lips. My left hand grabbed the base of his hairless dick, my right passed over his impressive body.
He groaned. Louder and louder.
He grunted. Deeper and deeper.
He gripped my hair and ground his crotch into my face. I was nothing but an object or a vessel for his lust. He desperately needed to climax. He had witnessed every one of his teammates getting sucked to satisfaction by the cuckolds serving them, and he needed to bust his nut. He needed to expend his energy.
And I was thirsty for more cum. I wanted to feed my inner slut. I felt his prick twitch and tasted every drop of his lust. I needed his orgasm as much as he did. I wanted Jordan to blow his balls down my throat as much as the pacey striker wanted to.
He panted. “Ya fuckin’ love this, don’t ya cocksucker?” Of course I did. I drove my lips around his cock head and gulped as my mouth swept down his cock, sucking strongly on his spasming dick.
“Some fucking slut here. Real fucking fag. Gagging on my dick. He’s lovin’ this. He needs it, don’t you? Fuckin’ need it.”
“Well, give it to him, Jordan. Feed the fag,” Scott called, staring me directly in the eyes as Jordan’s prick throbbed, and he groaned loudly.
Thick goo splashed across my tongue. The unmistakable essence of the confident stud as the milky cream pooled in my mouth. Several squirts. Several waves. Several grunts.
I was on edge. I could feel the dampness in those abbreviated ruffled shorts. I looked for another cock to suck. I needed more.
“Tek the panties off!” Scott demanded in his rough accent, as I rose from the floor, wiping my mouth of the remnants of Jordan’s emissions. “Hard as a faffin’ rock!”
I blushed when the ruffled black boyshorts hit the deck, and my erect cock bobbed free. Scott giggled and sat back in his armchair with his scrumpy cider in his hand.
Arsenal equalised a few moments later that elicited some cheers in the room and then fell behind once more to a scorching strike from the edge of the box. Bawdy chatter continued as we served drinks.
Fifteen minutes from the end, Scott slipped his prick into the tankard and released, and filled the pint glass with his almost clear piss.
Warm, steaming pee. He chuckled as he held it out to me. My hands trembled. My mind whirred. My cock stood firmly to attention.
The most degrading of acts. The biggest humiliation. Attention turned away from the game and stared at the cuckold holding the beaker of urine. “Drink it! Drink it!”
Martin smiled. My dignity stripped, my cheeks burnt with shame. I closed my eyes and brought the glass to my mouth. The smell scorched my nostrils. The taste scorched my tongue. The strong acrid sensation exploded across my lips as the liquid flooded into my me.
I gagged. They laughed.
A cruel roar of amusement. I was a disgrace. An affront of decent people. Yet with every slurp of Scott’s pee, and every debasing word, my horniness rose. My cock pulsed. My arse twitched.