Martin

Scott was the only footballer who stayed at the end of the game. When I returned from the small shower, just Martin and the nippy winger remained. They lounged on armchairs, talking, with Martin untroubled by his nudity.

"Most of 'em live bloody miles away," Scott explained. "A minibus picks them up and brings them here from the city. I only live out the back. So I walk home from here." His eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he passed me a beer. "We saved you one! What d'ya reckon to Saturday Football?"

"Fuckin' crazy," I muttered, and our eyes met. "But in a good way. I think."

"Coach David's a great manager," Scott added. "But he does like us to wave our dicks about."

Martin hummed. "There are a few girls he's fucking. All of them married. Victoria is just one of them."

"How does he ..."

"He's very alpha," Scott replied. He gulped, glanced at Martin and then looked back at me. "There's a lot of homophobia in football. I ... I did eight years through the youth teams of a Premier League club. They even gave me a youth contract and then they let me go when they found out I had a boyfriend, not a girlfriend."

Martin snorted. "C'mon Scott!"

Scott blushed. "OK, I had three boyfriends and two girlfriends. But I couldn't make a career out of football when I enjoyed fuckin' other boys. Coach David doesn't care. He doesn't give a monkey who I dick, so long as I'm on top. Dominant men make top ballers!"

"So, you have a boyfriend now? Or a girlfriend?" I asked, supping the beer and washing the taste of the coach's cum from my tastebuds.

Scott nodded. "Iain. He's a total bottom." The footballer smiled as he spoke. "He is a part-time swimming teacher in town and he also works in the gay sauna in Manchester."

"Oh," I muttered, unsure of what to say. "So ... he's not ... on the team?"

"Oh, the coach wouldn't mind him in your position, but not in mine. And he's shit at football. Really shit. The only balls he can handle are those swinging between a guy's thighs. He's a bit of a slut. And he writes too. Erotic fiction. Filthy stuff."

"And you live ... in the village?"

He sniggered. "Not that local. Two-mile walk or a bike ride across the fields. I don't have enough money to live in this village!" He giggled and looked at Martin. "Not all of us are multi-millionaires."

Martin blushed. "Perhaps you should get Iain to help with the drinks one day," I suggested. Martin looked at Scott and then me.

"We offered," they both said in unison, before Martin added. "He thinks he will embarrass Scott."

"But ... surely it's just ..."

"Fun?" Martin suggested, and I blushed. "But he is too worried about upsetting Scott. So that's the end of it." The sharp finality to the voice was enough to tell me not to press with the issue.

We had a warm chat before Scott walked out of the summerhouse into the twilight. It took Martin and I twenty minutes to clean the room and then dispose of the rubbish. Our partners were lazing in the hot-tub with cocktails and we joined them, reminiscing on the filthy afternoon. It was weird, but not unenjoyable reliving the disgusting antics, and describing two hours after the last man pounded my butt, it still felt used.

Those Saturdays became a regular part of my diary. Every Friday, I would drive from Bristol and spend the weekend with my partner. I would spent Saturday nights with an exhausted and tender body after the hours of hardcore abuse from the horny players.

Her employer extended her stint in Manchester by another year. I missed my fiancée during the week, and although I received plenty of filthy picture messages across WhatsApp, it was a poor substitute for having her with me. I missed the cuddles, supping her cunt and having her sadistic words tease me.

It was crucial that we made time on Sundays for "us" when I was in Manchester, and we did. I got a lot more vanilla sex than Martin, who enjoyed cunt just once or twice a year. But Clare and I also visited parks and museums, cinemas, bowling alleys, escape games and bars, to ensure that our relationship could survive and flourish long-distance.

During the week, Benji and Darren were regular visitors to the flat, and I enjoyed the submissive feel of being taken. I looked forward to my Saturday afternoons with the football team. I loved losing control as victorious footballers rammed their pricks into my degraded body as I satisfied them for hours at a time.

I had no male lovers as part of Clare's games for the first two years of our relationship, but since doing so, I had a steady stream of cocks to service without her present. Just as Clare had her sexual partners that she enjoyed without me, I now had my own, and the freedom was something that I relished. Until Benji, I had never been sexually satisfied when Clare was not present. Now, the goalposts had moved.

Within a few weeks, these afternoons had been the highlight in my weekly calendar. Clare and I had discussed that I should look for jobs in Manchester, and we should move back to the North-West. I liked my boss, and I liked my employer, but I loved Clare and my new sex life a lot more.

We had to decide. The lease on our rented flat in Bristol was due, and I hesitated about giving my employer my notice to quit. I had decided to move back to Manchester when an opportunity presented itself that I didn't expect. The office block, that housed my employer, caught fire one Wednesday night in mid-October. I received a phone call from my boss and in the small hours of a Thursday morning, I stood outside a smouldering ruin talking to a stressed CEO. He blamed a faulty fire alarm system that had failed to alert before the fire took hold. While our servers were located elsewhere, our desks and workstations were a charred mess.

As only a third of the team could fit in the small satellite office, he offered me the chance to "work from home" permanently. My manager trusted me, and I accepted without hesitation. "I guess that means you don't need to hand your notice in to move back up North," he said drily. "I heard you talking in the kitchen. Men will do anything to chase a bit of skirt."

"Thanks," I muttered, not sure what else I can say.

"Don't let me down," he warned me and turned away at the smoking ruins of his company's head office. The following weekend most of our possessions went into storage and I had one last sex session with Benji as I gave notice on our flat. I moved with just a couple of laptops, a suitcase of clothes and a few luxuries.

The first surprise was that Victoria's and Martin's offer to live with them did not extend to Clare's bedroom. "How can she entertain proper men if you are there?" Victoria asked in the sort of voice that suggested I had asked a stupid question. "You can stay in the summerhouse like Martin does. She will summon you if she has use for you in her bedroom."

I looked at the naked multi-millionaire, who owned a sprawling mansion, and his wife had relegated him to the expansive wooden shed at the end of his manicured garden. The bare cuckold beamed at me. "Be good to have some company again."

"And someone to share the jobs with," Clare added. "Don't forget the housework, Martin!"

"As if I would!"

Martin helped me move into the bedroom above the wooden summerhouse. My new abode was accessible using the wooden ladder, and contained two single beds, on either side of the roof-space room, pressed underneath the slanting eaves. There was space beneath the bed for my suitcase, next to a set of drawers. A small wooden desk was located at the end of my new bed, next to a balcony overlooking the large central space. I put my two laptops -- one personal and one for work - on my desk. "Be careful, sitting up in bed," the naked man reminded me. "You'll hit your head on the wooden beams."

Martin slept on the right-hand side of the bedroom. Victoria permitted him to sleep in the house two nights a week, normally on Friday and Saturday nights. On the other five nights, he had to sleep in his timber fuck-palace. Clare said she would grant me the same rights.

In the bedroom, underneath one of two CCTV cameras in our personal space, was a notice pinned to the wall which read "House Rules."

"They'll apply to you too," Martin warned, and then smiled. "But I'm sure you will like them. Or most of them."

1. Within the property, cuckolds will be naked at all times, and may only wear the clothes their lady has given them permission to wear.

2. Cuckolds will not masturbate, unless a lady has given them permission to do so.

3. Cuckolds may only fuck other cuckolds, and their lady. Cuckolds can only be sucked by other cuckolds.

4. Anyone may fuck cuckolds.

5. Cuckolds must do their chores.

6. Anyone may discipline cuckolds for any transgression.

7. Cuckolds must be hairless below the lip.

8. Cuckolds will do whatever any lady instructs them to do.

9. Cuckolds always swallow.

I gulped. "I suppose I shouldn't be wearing these," I suggested, tugging at my shirt and jeans.

He nodded with a grin. "No. You get used to it pretty quickly. We have a maid, and a gardener. The maid doesn't clean the summerhouse, the basement or the bedrooms, so we do that once a week. And the hot-tub. Some clothing we have to clean too. And sometimes we have to clean out the well-fucked cunts." He tittered as he spoke. "And we have to go shopping."

Martin and Victoria owned three cars. Martin's vehicle was a glittery hot pink VW Beetle with a very bright interior. Victoria designed it to be embarrassing, and he put me as a named driver on the insurance, with Clare taking my car keys from me. It was a far newer vehicle than her own.

It was surprisingly warm in the summerhouse in late-Autumn. I felt warm air coming from under the floors and Martin explained that there was a revolutionary heating system and extensive insulation in the walls. This was - in his words - the most luxurious wooden summerhouse this side of Stockholm, and I didn't doubt it.

"My neighbour didn't like it when it got built. He put in complaint after complaint last year," Martin snorted derisively. "He's got the biggest house on the street and he's at least forty metres away, but he moans about the parties we have here. Keeps putting in reports to the council." Martin cocked his head. "He's very, very devout Christian. I think he's seen things, which is why he hates us."

"Probably wants some," I joked.

"I'm sure he does," Martin replied. "When his wife was away, he had a very different maid come to help him. She was about 25, busty, and wearing a very impractical outfit. I've offered to buy his house as it's bigger than ours and it has so much more land, but he's refused. Victoria has plans."

Martin and Victoria had hosted couples many times before. Friends, in the lifestyle, were common and each time the husband, boyfriend or fiancé slept with Martin in the summerhouse's attic bedroom. Victoria loved her husband, but she had a sex drive he couldn't satisfy. He, too, had needs, which she could not meet. The arrangement may have been intense, but it suited them both.

The two small desks, at the end of the beds and adjacent to the small balcony, were ideal for both Martin and myself. Although he had sold his company three years prior, he had invested that windfall into a large investment vehicle.

For a few hours each day he would pour over market data, and join conference calls as he managed his multi-million pound fund. He also had a sizeable property empire and collected rent from hundreds of families. Lastly he had stakes in "over a dozen companies," a small number of which were controlling interests.

Therefore, Martin left the summerhouse on a couple of days each week to visit the enterprises he owned and had invested in. The tranquillity and stillness of the working environment was ideal for my coding. I furnished the desk with an extra monitor and the number of commits I made to the central repository increased markedly.

Martin enjoyed the extra company and domestic help. My manager loved my extra productivity. My fiancée adored having me with her all week. Victoria relished the additional submissive to torment and tease, although my low tolerance to pain had seen me spared the severe dungeon visits which Martin enjoyed.

For me, it was an intensive existence, yet incredibly relaxing. I had more sex than I had ever had before. There wasn't a day where I didn't satisfy someone, but my life had become so simple. My commute was a two foot naked walk from my bed to my desk. I did what my fiancée demanded, and I wore what I was told to.

Both Clare and I offered Victoria and Martin rent singularly and together. We tried to help with the household bills and begged them to let us pay our way. We had no expenditure. "Some point in the future, you could well have a child. And then you'll be in your own home, and money will be tight. Save your cash," Martin said to me at the dinner table. "Not to mention a wedding! They are damn expensive."

"But we have no expense," I replied. I work from the summerhouse, you buy all the food. You won't even let me buy you a beer! I have fifty quid a month on car insurance for Clare's car and that's just about it!" My fiancée smiled when I referred to my vehicle as her car, but I was no longer permitted to drive it. It was too "normal."

Victoria got up from the table and flashed a riding crop underneath my chin. "Any more word of you paying your way and I will take you into my dungeon and turn your balls so black and blue they'll look like blotting paper!" I shrunk at the ferocity of her words. "Friends do not pay here. And cucks pay in dignity not money."

Clare sniggered, but I still felt guilty for leeching from our friends. I spoke to Victoria again about it the following Saturday evening, and she slammed her fist on the table. "Do not insult me. Cucks do not pay money. They pay in other ways. OK?"

"Well, I have never not paid my way. Please let us give you some money while we stay with you. We're both earning."

Victoria looked at her friend and then at me. "Cuckolds will do whatever a lady instructs them to do, that's my house rules. Do you have a problem with that?"

"No, of course not, Victoria." I tried to argue that I felt uncomfortable taking from her and Martin, to which she sniggered.

"You are looking to refuse my hospitality and I find that offensive. Apologise please." Her eyes bored into me. When I didn't respond she smiled at Clare, and then at me once more. "Then you will pay for your insubordination during the week until you apologise for insulting me and trying to turn down my hospitality. You do know I have a dungeon and a vicious imagination? In this house, cuckolds don't use pounds, their currency is dignity. And I will happily make you pay if that is what you want."

I did not have long to wait until she showed me what she meant. Victoria and Clare entertained on Sunday afternoon. It was a warm day, and the ladies had a few gentlemen come to visit them in the hot-tub.

Victoria brought out a whiteboard and a ruler. Martin and I had our cocks measured while flaccid and she wrote her husband, at 5.5cm, and myself, at 7cm, at the bottom of the board.

I watched as a succession of men joined my wife and Victoria, as the two women relaxed in the bubbling water with cocktails and cocks.

Before they entered, each man was fluffed by myself or Martin, and then measured - even those of an average size dwarfed mine and Martin's measurements, and Victoria made us thank the bulls for giving our partners "proper cock."

It was degrading. Those words belittled us. We made cocktails and served drinks, while our partners cuckolded us. I watched as they fucked Clare in and out of the hot-tub on the luxurious terrace.

After all the occasions where I had witnessed my lover speared on the end of another's prick, it still aroused me and humiliated me. I still felt a sinful shame and guilty lust as my fiancée writhed and squealed on the end of a stout cock.

Almost of all the guys who screwed Clare and Victoria loved an audience. They paraded their superior masculinity and claimed my fiancée's sex in front of me. They exaggerated, taunted, and teased as they forced me to yield to them.

Naked.

As the tub filled up, Victoria sent Martin and I outside. "While they're busy," she demanded. "Go outside and wash their cars."

"But ..." I moaned, and Clare broke from her kiss to glare at me.

"Martin will show you where the cleaning stuff is, Jonathan. Naked, of course. You don't want to get any of your clothes wet."

I sighed and followed Martin to the garage. Because of the high hedges, users of the cul-de-sac on the edge of the village could only just see me, but it was still slightly in public view and I begrudgingly cleaned, shampooed and waxed the half-a-dozen vehicles belonging to the men shagging my partner.

I could hear the impassioned sounds of sex as my muscles ached and my hands tired. Three of the cars were ramshackle rustbuckets, but a couple were expensive upmarket saloons. I saw child seats through the window and wondered how much their partners knew about their weekend activities.

Victoria visited me after two hours, surveying the clean vehicles with a grunt. "Enjoying being our car cleaner?"

"No!" I snapped, and Victoria's hand traced the underside of my butt. She leant in to whisper in my ear.

"Your fiancée is enjoying it," she replied, and squeezed my right butt cheek causing me to yelp. "But cut the fucking attitude. Or I will made you beg for mercy." She took a step back, and I heard an electronic beep. The electric gate at the end of the drive whirred as it opened.

I scurried, and she grabbed me. "I'm naked. It's ..."

"You're on private land," she replied. "Those two cars still need doing. If you want to put some clothes on, I have a tutu you can wear," she replied and giggled. "Clean those two cars, properly, and then apologise for your attitude and then maybe, I'll close the gate."

Two ladies on horseback laughed when they rode past the property towards the bridleway at the end of the road; I was bent over a twenty-year-old Ford Fiesta, with my bare arse pointing towards the open drive, when the clicking of hooves stopped and shrieking filled the air.

One photographed me with a wicked whoop.

A jogger called out as he went past, and a delivery driver blew on his horn. It was humiliating. I heard the whirring of the gate's electric motor close as I finished the last car, and Victoria came out, wrapped in the arms of one of her lovers.

Clare was behind her friend. She giggled when she saw me, and her hands landed on the bonnet of a red Corsa that a young student owned.

His cock parted her cunt with ease and slid into her lubricated pussy with little resistance. She groaned and made eye contact with me as the nineteen-year-old boy rammed his long prick into her maidenhood. "He's getting 'ard," he called out as the young bull thrusted into my woman. "Ya like seeing a man claim your bird?"

I did. And everyone knew that. My cock signposted my kinks, and my eyes were fixated on their naked bodies, writhing on the bonnet of his ageing car. My fiancée, bent over the rounded metal, and him, with his tracksuit trousers by his ankles and skewering my love into a grunting mess.

Clare groaned and stared at me as the teenager pounded her cunt. Her body pressed against the cool bonnet.

And then he pulled out and came over the shiny metal. "Look at that," Victoria called. "Look at the mess on this car. Cum, handprints. Tit-prints," she sniggered. "Better go do this one again."

I scowled at our host, and she flashed me a wicked smile. The entourage returned to their cocktails and the hot-tub, before returning half-an-hour later to eight sparkling clean motors.