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I spent several days working on Scott’s gay boyfriend and cajoled him to join us on the Saturday afternoons. His cock rose as we described what we did, and I knew it appealed, but he lacked the confidence to tell Scott that he wanted to attend.

Martin and I regularly had “guest cucks” at the parties. Lucy had dispatched her cheating husband, Julian, to spend a couple of afternoons with us while his wronged partner enjoyed the pounding cocks of victorious footballers, and he was surprisingly good with dispensing blowjobs to horny athletes. Terry, the bicurious resident of Martin’s village, was less so. As I tried hard to convince Iain that another man joining us for one afternoon would not have been a problem, he was unconvinced.

I had to implore, and on Wednesday night I broke his resolve. Victoria had persuaded my fiancée to take up a new pursuit, horse riding. The stables were nearby, and I knew that a couple of the stable-hands had caught the attentions of the slutty vixens. An hour after they left the sprawling mansion, the lady of the house sent me a message on WhatsApp to show my partner on a hay bale while some young horny ostler played stallion with my wife-to-be.

While Scott and Iain joined us for a few games of cards, we described the previous Saturday to Iain, which had been raucous. Our wives had selected a rather embarrassing outfit for the cucks to wear – Playboy Bunny Ears, a black jockstrap and a black bowtie. I felt ridiculous, and the elegant hotwives laughed as we paraded our submissiveness in front of them. Victoria reminded me once more that the ladies of the household owned my dignity.

It was uncommon for the support staff to join us after the game; the manager – Coach David – always took his the star players from the match to the hot-tub, but the half-dozen coaches around the first team rarely visited the summerhouse or the hot-tub. That day, the fitness coach, Calvin, and goalkeeper coach, Wayne, enjoyed the fruits of the cunt. They were stout, experienced men, with prime specimens of manhood. David’s sent his two assistants – Charlie and Xavier – both barely out of teenage years to the party, along with twelve footballers.

And Ingrid. The bubbly physio sat in the summerhouse and watched the antics befall her. She didn’t want anyone to touch her, but the curvy divorcee savoured the bawdy shenanigans of the room.

They didn’t wait for the start of the match for the debauchery to begin. The team had won five-nil, and they wanted a celebration.

Identical twin brothers, Jamie and Billy, were the first to enjoy me. They were tall, muscular men, with gelled hair and disgusting vocabulary. Their cocks were small, their confidence was boundless.

I’d barely given everyone their drink when the tattooed Jamie bent me over the chair to wild cheers. I knew they would fuck me. They always did. I loved being buggered, but the horny footballers had never plundered my ass before the teams on the big screen had emerged from the tunnel.

Yet Jamie couldn’t wait. The cool squirt of lubricant splashed across my hole, and then the meagre manhood parted my buttcheeks.

His identical brother stuck his diminutive prick in my open mouth as I laughed. He took my gasp as an invitation to get his cock sucked.

Their dicks may not have reached my prostate, but they were an ideal size for cocksucking. Smooth skin that did not trouble the gag reflex, even on inexperienced cocksuckers. And I was far from that.

I zoned out as I often did. I slipped into my role as a slut, and I sucked and worshipped on Billy’s boyish prick as Jamie passionately rutted against my hole. In the same rhythm as his brother, the two men rammed their dicks into me. Seized their pleasure from me.

They made me powerless. Two brothers spit-roasted me in front of their teammates. The spectators watched, drinking alcohol and grinning as they ransacked my body for their enjoyment.

I barely felt Jamie’s cock quiver and fill the condom before another replaced it. American midfielder, Parker, held onto my waist as he slid his veiny tool past my rosebud, and slowly built up a rhythm.

“How many of you have fucked this faggot?” He asked loudly, without wanting an answer, and hammered away at my backside.

Uncompromising, overwhelming, vigorous thrusts that speared his mighty tool deep inside me. He wasn’t fucking me for our pleasure, but for his. His powerful hands gripped my waist and pulled my ragged body onto his cock.

But it felt good. Amazing. My prick leaked pre-cum into my black jockstrap as Parker pounded my “boy-pussy.” Those ludicrous words were humiliating. I hated them. It made my dick drip even more.

His thick tool rubbed beautifully against my prostate. Billy’s grunting cock spewed cum onto my tongue, and Anthony’s epic member replaced it. I could see Stan spanking Martin while Paolo rammed his prick into my friend’s mouth.

They watched little football. Never had the match not taken centre stage, but that afternoon they just wanted to sate their bahis şirketleri lust again and again. The brief stoppages were so Martin and I could replenish their drinks.

The wonderfully smooth and heavenly taste of Scott followed the hole-wreckingly big Wes, and then the nervously young Cameron. My body got no respite, and nor did I want it to.

I was in my happy place. Content and joyful. I serviced almost every single member of that team in that room. I fellated the ball carriers, Charlie and Xavier, with glee. I rimmed Scott, plunging my tongue into the folds of his anus and supped Tom’s pee.

Nothing could disgrace me. I had no dignity and no shame. I wanted more and more cock, and I would take as much rampant debauchery as they would offer.

Testosterone coursed through their veins. Alcohol flowed through their gullets. Exuberance reigned supreme.

They covered my body in cum. I could taste nothing but beer, cum and piss. My muscles ached. My mind swam through horniness and lust. I wanted more. I always did on these occasions. This rampant drunken orgy was my Eden.

One lad produced a packet of Sharpies and they daubed demeaning words across our bodies in coloured ink. “Cocksucker” on my forehead. “Fuck Me” at the base of my back. The undersized Jamie wrote “Tiny Cock” underneath my belly-button to raucous laughter and teasing. Ingrid subtly took pictures of our skin, defaced with degrading phrases.

She recorded the spankings we received too. Scott raided the toy chest for implements to redden our flesh and puncture our dignity. He hung pegs and weights from our nipples that stung with pain, which turned to agony as we were roughly fucked.

Nothing had prepared me for the swinging sensation as fierce thrusts rippled across my orgasmic body and the momentum caused excruciating torment in my nipples. They greeted my cries and yells with gleeful laughter, and they gagged my mouth with a horny prick.

Two hours of relentless torture. Of never-ending fucking and sucking and hedonistic excess. Every part of me ached when Ingrid slapped a rubber glove on her hands and gave the players a wry grin.

I had little choice, kneeling down on the chair as her lubricated fingers slipped inside Martin and me. Her motions drew gasps of delight. My prostate glowed under the firm touch of her left hand. She had clearly done this act many times before, and my erect cock leaked onto the black leather armchair.

It was too delightful. The pressure was too much. I couldn’t resist any strong touch on my special spot, and the humiliating laughter and taunts from the alpha men only made it worse.

The House Rules did not allow me to plough my prick into anyone else, and anal play had brought me to the peak of my climax. I was a beta-male, a submissive and their fucktoy. Their teasing words reinforced this.

Scott gripped my erect cock and stroked it in time with Ingrid’s deep movements inside my rectum. And the delicious stroking and probing of my prostate had brought me to the very pinnacle of my release. I grunted, groaned and panted.

I needed my climax, and they made me beg for it. To plead and implore them to give what they had all had in abundance. My desperate pleas were catnip to their sadism, and tonic to their jibes.

Scott ran his hand as quickly as he could over my stiff cock, as the woman pressed against my prostate. My body shuddered. My toes curled and my loins exploded into a million sparks of sexual enjoyment and ecstasy.

Cum poured from me. Not a few squirts, but Ingrid leaked and drained my balls to a puddle on the leather armchair as I breathlessly rode every wave cascading through my sweaty, exhausted flesh.

Our account of that Saturday party left Iain stiff and horny. Slipping his stubby prick into my willing mouth as Martin described Anthony’s thick tool thundering against his prostate was a small price to pay for Iain’s company the following week. It was the first time in months a stranger had brought Iain to orgasm, and Scott looked on as his slutty boyfriend pumped several waves of hot cum onto my tongue.

Our offer was too good an invitation to turn down; it was too enticing a party to miss. Iain changed his shifts at the gay sauna to ensure he could attend on Saturday afternoon. I was relieved, as Scott had warned us that we would have the full first team, and we would need all the mouths, hands and butts we could get.

Martin and I were experienced at these wild debauched afternoons; the guys recognised us and knew we understood their wants and needs. I’d not met Sean Neill before. His wife, Amy, was a diminutive hot-blooded wisp of a slut, and was one of Coach David’s newest recruits. She’d been playing away from her husband for years and had fallen for the football manager.

I knew how she felt. I’d been there. Every guy working in the summerhouse that afternoon knew the feeling of the firm hand of an athletic, dominant male, pressed against the small of the back. Every person understood the wash of submission bahis firmaları as the throbbing cock was fiercely driven into your wanton body and longed for the unrelenting sexual power of another. I knew why Amy flocked to the authoritative man and wanted to come back time and time again. I appreciated how the masculinity of the Coach brought her to her knees. It was a drug. An unconquerable addiction. A need.

But for years her accountant husband didn’t understand. He wanted to, but his young wife had never been so horny or slutty around him. She’d never allowed him to treat her, as her lovers did. She never met her husband for lunch in a short dress with no underwear because her lover demanded it. She would not countenance posing for pornographic photographs or videos for her spouse, yet her lovers had extensive collections of her erotic material. The alpha men in her life had more privileges and fewer boundaries than her passive and infertile husband.

Yet, her open infidelity gave him permission to roam. Amy encouraged it with abandon and created his dating profile on a hook-up site. She guided him into exploring his fantasies and the firm cock of a masked man at the gay sauna, rammed against his prostate, had shown him what he had missed out on. One afternoon at their Naked Day was enough for Sean to upgrade his profile’s sexuality from “straight” to “bisexual.” His wife was thrilled, and he became a regular at Iain’s workplace. Six months after his revelation, the bald-headed, square-jawed professional was the fourth waiter for the final match before Christmas.

In the hour before the football team arrived, we ensured that the four submissive butts had been cleaned and readied with butt-plugs. Iain smothered Sean with hair removal cream, and I prepared the food for our hospitality. Iain’s eyes glinted with horror and excitement as we donned the flimsy shorts which Victoria had selected.

The first week of November was cold, wet and miserable, but the club ensured they stayed top of the league with a victory and as Scott netted their third goal, four men were preparing for a testosterone onslaught. The guys arrived at the wooden summerhouse in fine spirits, dressed in their team tracksuits. An illegal stream of the Watford match occupied most of the wall, while the four of us ran around serving drinks. The snacks were for half-time.

I counted over thirty horny footballers.

Thirty cocks waiting for us. Thirty pairs of balls itching to drain into our bodies and thirty alpha men desperate to seize the initiative and plunder our holes.

Scott caught my eye. Soon after Deeney chipped the ball past the hapless goalkeeper in the third minute, my friend got the party started.

I loved his cock. I loved the smooth texture and the shaven pubis that filled my throat. I loved the sharp words as the nippy winger rammed his cock past my lips.

“Your bitch is probably on her second dick by now.” He said and was probably right. “And I reckon she’s come lots of times. Can you remember what it’s like to make a woman climax?” I groaned into the dick filling my mouth.

He ran his hand through my hair and chuckled, ramming his cock to the back of my throat. I gasped in shock and glanced at up the cheeky winger with watery eyes. He smiled and then watched the match as my tongue swept along his smooth shaft.

Scott pulled his tracksuit bottoms to his ankles, and my nose brushed against the hem of the tracksuit top, as I fellated him. He watched the screen, focusing his eyes and attentions on the game as he sipped cider from the plastic tumbler.

My cock twitched. I was nothing more than a mouth at that point in time, sucking his prick. The match was more important than me. His teammates were. His drink was. I was worthless, and I loved it. I adored feeling his dominance.

Not that I was powerless when I sucked cock. Anything but. Scott’s glazed eyes, mouth slightly agape, as I kneeled down in front of his prick. I did that. I made him whimper and groan as I worshipped his silky smooth dick. I had the power to make him breathless with raw sexual pleasure.

And I was eager to do so. I could never get enough of Scott’s cock. Every bit was perfection. Wonderfully sleek, velvety skin of a perfect length that tickled the back of my mouth, or slammed against my prostate. I envied Iain every time I knelt down and took Scott’s gorgeous member between my lips. Iain had the opportunity to fellate Scott every single day.

My lips glided over his spit-covered dick. I sucked at his head, and ran my tongue over his sensitive glans, just as he liked. He grunted. His attention flickered. My hand gripped the base of his shaft and I pumped his firm dick as my mouth worked on his prick. Eager for his cum. Desperate for his orgasm.

I felt his cock flex underneath my touch, and his thigh muscles shuddered. Scott held his breath and a moment later, the first spurt of cum slid over my tongue. Deliciously pungent. Beautifully, heavenly and manly.

I sucked the last of his seed from kaçak bahis siteleri his prick and let it fall out of my mouth. Our eyes met, and he nodded. “I needed that!”

“So did I,” I replied, causing him to chuckle.

A moment later and the brash American midfielder leant over the back of the chair to smash his palm into my buttocks, covered only by the short flimsy feminine shorts. “Two lagers,” he called his Southern drawl.

Tattoos covered Parker from the neck down. The strapping midfielder slouched naked in his leather armchair and pointed to his semi-erect tool, before taking the two bottles of beer from me.

His circumcised prick jerked as my lips touched the purple head. His veiny, marbled cock was shorter than Scott’s, but just as thick. I slowly worked my way down his shaft until my nose rubbed against the trimmed fuzz of his pubic hair. At his command, I pushed my face into his balls and lick the sweaty orbs underneath his cock, causing him to grunt and groan.

It’s one of my happy places. My mind decluttered as my tongue swirled around his soft balls and worked up to his bare cockhead once more. I’d had his prick many times before. I know how wonderful his cum tasted. He knew how good a cocksucker I was.

My lips slid up and down his stout cock and caused the Yankee midfielder to grunt. His dick leaked pre-cum – the pungent, sapid goo that served as a starter for the meal to come. He looked away from the screen, staring at the ceiling as his hips bucked and his sweaty balls emptied several helpings of cum into my slutty mouth.

I glanced up to see an ebony figure ramming his epic prick into Martin’s backside, and Iain sucking the athletic Tom. The match – a key game in the season – was second best compared to the orgy of homosexual debauchery.

Parker may have identified as “100% straight” but the extrovert American ran his own tattoo shop. He had inked several men for free, in return for sexual favours. Isaac had a wife, a mistress, and had access to my wife the previous week, but the big-dicked reserve centre-back was gleefully sodomising Martin like he was a porn star. They all watched, they all wanted, regardless of their stated sexuality.

Robin – the blue-eyed newcomer to the club – clicked his fingers at me. He was married with one child, but he demanded the soft touch of my mouth. He had the smallest cock on the team by a considerable margin. The diminutive micropenis looked so ridiculous on the muscular frame of the third-choice striker, especially against his oversized balls.

Anal was almost a physical impossibility. Oral was Robin’s only option, and I swept my lips around his fun-sized phallus, taking it in full with ease. My lips touched his hairless mons, and I sucked his tiny tool was gusto.

He moaned as I worked on his prick. He ignored the jeering and wisecracks from his better-endowed teammates and focused on the attention my mouth made on his smooth nub.

My fingers tickled his testes, and I pressed against his perineum. He gasped, groaning as his loins sizzled. He grunted and his little prick spasmed and shot wave after wave of cum onto my tongue.

Deep muskiness. He looked away from me, nodding only as his pre-orgasm guilt kicked in. I felt used and discarded. My cock rose further.

I escaped the carnage in the room to the kitchen, to put several pizzas in the oven, and empty the bags of snacks into large bowls.

They drowned out the audio from the stream with the loud sounds of fucking and cheering. The entire team, except four players, were in the room and were barely watching the game. I peeked out of the door to see Sean squealing as two wingers spit-roasted him. His eyes met mine. I saw a smile.

That day, the summerhouse Saturday afternoon meet was not about football, booze and a bit of sex. It was a full-on orgy. We were there to get banged by better men. We were there to be a receptacle for their exuberance and testosterone.

My loins itched as I watched the febrile fucking, unable to leave the pizzas unattended. Martin burnt the food once as he bounced on Theo’s girthy prick, and the harsh spanking was a reminder never to trust the oven timer.

I tore my eyes away from the intense sodomy and fellatio, and prepared eight trays of snack food – from chicken pieces, nuts, crisps, samosas and pizzas – and arranged them on temporary tables at the rear of the room, just as the whistle blew for half-time.

They never stopped. After I placed the final tray on the table, the team captain forcibly grabbed me from behind and threw me over a leather puffy. I recognised his unmistakable aftershave.

Wes, the 6ft 3in ebony giant of a centre-back, gave my backside a friendly smack. “Be a good host,” he laughed. I felt the cold drizzle of lubricant slide across my hole and placed my head on the edge of the oversized stool.

Waiting for what was to come. I was vulnerable. Wes sprayed my legs open, but my wet rosebud eagerly awaited the blunt tip of his prick. I adored the intimacy of anal sex. My sphincter craved the full feeling of Wes’s monstrous black meat. In recent weeks, the centre back had made Clare orgasm multiple times, and I had creamed my shorts as he stretched my willing hole with his impressive tool.

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