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."
"But ..."
"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 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 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.
