Clare and I had a few debauched weekends and several amazing nights of fantastic sex with our hosts and their never-ending litany of friends. I adored the sight of sexual ecstasy etched on the face of my fiancée as a well-endowed man ploughed into her. I had not tired of the sinful sounds of a thick prick pounding into the lubricated holes of my girl, or flesh slapping as they passionately copulated. I enjoyed the musky smells of lust, fevered fornication and gratification from two or more rutting lovers.
But it was my position, and my humiliation that was the real deliciousness. I fluffed, I watched, I waited, and I cleaned up. I was present to facilitate the vast majority of Clare's sexual enjoyment, not to cause it. Each thrust into her unguarded pussy by the meaty dick was a slap to my pride and a boost to my happiness.
I adored every moment of her promiscuity, and I loved her more each time she orgasmed from another man. And since she had moved to Manchester, there had been a lot of others. Victoria saw to that. Sometimes, I had to pick her up from her date, and got to hear how her lover had performed. She knew it made me horny, and she played on my obvious discomfort to make me squirm, or even treat me to a ruined orgasm.
Meanwhile, our partners had excelled themselves in finding more and more creative outfits for us to wear when entertaining on Saturdays. The chastity cage was especially humiliating, and this was only beaten by the cheerleader outfit. The black leather harness and jockstrap was a combination they used twice, and the footballers loved the addition of the kinky clothing, as it gave them something to grip as they fucked us.
Martin and I grew close. We lived, slept and cooked together, and on some days, I spent more time with Victoria's husband than I spent with my partner. We had lots of sex in front of each other, and I learnt that his favourite act was one of mine. Mutually sucking the multi-millionaire in a "69" position became an everyday occurrence, when Victoria had not placed her spouse in a chastity cage. It solved the morning wood problem, was within the House Rules, and put me in a good frame of mind to work for the day.
Other mornings, I would make breakfast for my wife, and wake her gently with a bowl of fresh porridge, a steaming mug of tea and a screaming orgasm, delivered by sensual cunnilingus.
Scott was a regular visitor to the summerhouse. He travelled to his workplace by bicycle, and it was only a brief detour from his usual route to go via our wooden abode. He avoided our designated "couple nights" but on any other day he could saunter into the lodge as I was finishing work and announce that "Iain's working tonight and I have two balls of cum. I'm going to screw you!"
A massage on the table, followed by soft, slow oral and finished with a rampant display of masculinity. Sometimes Scott would seize his fuck, driving his cock into me while Martin watched. However, if Victoria's submissive husband had to prepare dinner, it would be more sensual.
Many a time, he slid over my naked body as I lay on the cushion, and placed his powerful thighs either side of mine. He slowly gyrated his hips rhythmically to fuck my arse. I adored the skin-to-skin contact and the tactile nature of his dominance.
I felt his warm breath on the nape of my neck as he sensuously drove my body to an erotic climax. He often stayed for dinner after such a luxurious orgasm, and sat between Martin and myself, as Clare gave him a knowing smile.
I travelled to Bristol for an overnight stay once every three or four weeks; my manager needed regular face-to-face conversations with me, and each time I'd message Benji the details of my hotel. Without fail, the bald-headed dominant would saunter into my room, roger me senseless and then leave. I loved the humiliation of the objectification and rejection. It was nasty, but he was my kind of nasty.
Occasionally on the couple nights with Clare, she'd crack open her strapon, or we'd use the dungeon in Victoria's cellar. But normally, we'd curl up and watch a film, or go bowling, or do something together. We made the most of those occasions because they were so important to us, and our relationship strengthened and blossomed.
The bisexual swingers night at the sex club on the first Thursday of every month got progressively better. Taking my fiancée's strapon at one end, while a dominant bull stuffed my grunting mouth with his slippery prick, in front of hundreds of perverts, was a special experience. Watching Clare orgasm repeatedly on stage, as Victoria strapped a horse-sized replica dildo and pounded her sopping cunt, was another.
So, my lifestyle was incredible. I got more sex than I had ever had in my life and was enjoying it more and more. We knew Iain and Scott very well, but at the Saturday parties, we had regular visitors from cuckolded partners too. The Coach had a spell on women, and the lure of his sexual shenanigans drew several wives and girlfriends to his side and his bedroom. Many husbands found the rampant bisexuality and intensity of the football team too much to handle, but a couple of them attended regularly.
After one such orgy, the Coach visited to the summerhouse with our naked partners, and passed Iain and me invitations to the team's Christmas Party. "Why?" I muttered, still dressed in the sexy black Latex school girl outfit my partner had chosen. "We aren't on the team?"
His eyes narrowed to a scowl and his giant paw thundered onto my bare shoulder, squeezing it until it hurt. "Of course, you'all part of my team," he roared. "All of you! You all have your jobs looking after my lads." I glanced at Martin and he just nodded, deferentially thanking the muscular beast.
The timetable of the event was that after the team's last game, three days before Christmas, they would have a muted afternoon of booze and buggery at the summerhouse. The following lunchtime on Sunday, the minibuses would pick them up and they would go to their booked hotel to have a relaxed afternoon, and then dress in their smart clothes for the festive party.
Martin and I would attire and prepare ourselves and travel with Victoria and Clare to the venue. My room-mate was excited and a little coy about the event. "It'll be fun," was the description he gave, and he didn't open up further until I had attended to his morning glory and kissed it to a spurting orgasm. "The guys are a great laugh. It's light-hearted. You'll love it. Plenty of sex. You will be damn well used."
Martin had introduced me to the lady who kept his body glabrous, and I visited the Helen, the Magical Waxing Witch, the week before the Christmas party, who smoothed my skin in under an hour.
I helped Martin at the supermarket and we filled the kitchenette with unhealthy party food and topped up the alcohol stocks. Hauling over £400 of booze from Martin's car was sweaty work, and after lunch, I douched, plugged and showered myself. Clare's eyes sparkled when I emerged from the shower. "What's up?" I asked.
"You look so sexy," she muttered. "Hairless really suits you. Especially with a pink plug in!" She held out three bags and told me to take one. "It's your outfit."
Stockings. Thigh-high woollen white stockings with two navy rings around the top. She giggled as I stood in front of her, my cock prominent. We kissed, passionately, and I wanted to drag her to the ladder when Martin coughed behind me. "Sorry," he replied. "But they'll be here in thirty minutes."
My fiancée laughed. "I know! But I can enjoy myself teasing." She giggled as she passed Martin his bag. "My fiancé had it doggy-style last week. He won't get cunt again until next year!" I blushed; it was a rare moment of traditional fucking. "Access to pussy is not what cucks receive too often," she explained. "It makes them expect it!"
"I know," Martin moaned, and his attention turned to the flimsy feminine black stocking in his bag. "I've not had any of Victoria's pussy since March the Ninth," he grumbled. "That's 289 days ago. It's an eternity. But I got to cream your husband yesterday. He has a fine ass!"
I blushed as my fiancée laughed. "You're more of a slut for cock than I am!" She added and was probably right. "How many dicks have you had since Sunday?"
I pondered for a moment - Scott (twice), Iain, Martin (thrice) and the takeaway driver on Monday. "Two," I lied. She shook her head and looked away.
"I'm on four. But one of those cocks was you. You clearly need to be naughtier!" She peered down her nose at me, waited for a few seconds and whispered in my ear. "Those CCTV cameras - in this room, in your bedroom and in the bathroom are all hooked up so I can see what are you doing. And who you are doing." I gulped. "Do you want to stop lying to your fiancée?"
"You don't count Martin, do you? He's... ummm..."
"And the pizza delivery guy? And Scott! And his boyfriend!"
