The Coach set Clare, Victoria and a few of the other members of his harem a little challenge into the New Year. The weather was cold and wet, the excitement of the festive break had long since evaporated, and the team restarted the two-horse race at the top of the division, with just three points separating the clubs.
The clash between the runaway leaders was the key game of the season. The away match in September - the first meeting between Ashfield Rangers and Wythenshawe Wanderers - was an even encounter as the pair battled to a 2-2 draw. The return match was scheduled for late January and was one that the Mancunian club could not afford to lose. One of the coach's younger entourage had discovered where their lead striker regularly drank, and the coach enlisted Sean's wife to trap him.
Danny was a swashbuckling, egotistical and cocksure Mancunian, with a boyband haircut in his brown hair and a terrible work ethic. He was also as monogamous as a porn star, which was the angle the Coach used.
Little Amy worked her lines perfectly. The seductress entertained the potent poacher with regular abundance after an initial meeting in a local bar in the centre of Wythenshawe before Christmas. Her "car had broken down" and she had the other half of a double room at the local Travelodge. She designed her short dress and flirty attitude to ensnare him, and the striker was putty in the scheming tart's hands.
After which, regular trips to the cheap hotel followed, often accompanied by another of Coach David's female acquaintances. Danny brought along a couple more of the team for "company" with rampant fucking and complete debauchery on the menu.
This was leading up to the "big one."
Amy's offer was perfect: she told him that her friend was hosting a party. An upper-class hedonistic orgy. Plenty of filthy socialites, lots of free booze, and a local taxi firm owed her a favour. She could bring her favourite footballer, and his friends, from Wythenshawe to Victoria's country estate for a drunken sexual rampage at zero cost to the footballer.
The only catch was that the party was hours before the midday game against Ashfield Rangers. Even Danny pondered the offer for a while: his club had ordered their players to rest, lay off the booze and have an early night the evening before the key match. Alas, the promise of unlimited alcohol and classy married cunt was too alluring. A few minutes before 8pm, a taxi-load of horny footballers descended on the summerhouse.
Martin and I had spent the day swapping most of the summerhouse's armchairs with furniture from Victoria's fuck-dungeon, one giant bed, and a couple of chaise-lounges. A handful of toys and implements were available if the party needed it.
Victoria and Coach David invited a dozen "bulls" who were given the same offer as Danny - booze and sex for the evening. They had also been told to do whatever they could to ensure the marks imbibed as much alcohol as possible.
There were six girls, dressed in seductive, short dresses. My fiancée was in navy blue fishnet, Amy in a sheer crimson sarong and Victoria in black Latex. Other wives were similarly dressed in clothes they could not wear in public. All were ready and waiting to service the men.
I was one of the four waiters in "stripper" outfits: short black aprons that showed our bare butts, and bow ties. Our remit was to ply booze to the partygoers. Singles were banned and even doubles risked a firm spanking. Apart from the cucks, we were instructed to ensure that no man left the timber fuck palace sober.
The evening was barely a moment old when I watched a beach-blonde tattooed player slide his hand up my fiancée's short dress and openly ply her bald pussy. Clare cooed at his muscular frame under his tight white T-shirt. "Amy," she called. "I do like your friends."
The bubbly blonde giggled and slid her hand into Danny's jeans. "He promised us seven extra cocks for tonight," she announced and felt his crotch.
"Yeah, I got ya seven dicks." There was a nervousness to his words as he brashly spoke. This was not his usual environment, especially when "Lady" Newby introduced herself while wearing just a bracelet and a smile.
The alcohol flowed. Cheap sparkling white wine, served in champagne flutes, would have fooled no one else in the room, but the seven footballers gulped at the fizzy drink with abandon. Glasses refilled and replaced, followed by cocktails and beer and spirits.
Temperatures rose. Raised voices accompanied naked bodies. The more confident marks couldn't wait and pawed at the smorgasbord of luscious ladies. My cock strained as I watched them all. I loved the sights, sounds, and smells of rampant debauchery. The rubber of clothes and condoms, fierce exertion, slapping flesh, groans of ecstasy and cum. My lips drooled.
I saw horny men spit-roast my fiancée several times. Desperate rutting men, thrusting into my woman, causing her to grunt and groan passionately. The pasty Drew ground his cock into her moaning mouth as the tanned Lorenzo speared her dripping cunt.
A scene repeated throughout the room. Seven footballers, a dozen bulls and just six wives. Six women to service untold horniness and testosterone.
"Suck my balls."
"Lick my shaft."
"Spread your legs."
"I'm having your butt."
Not a word of "please" uttered. Not a single request, but demands. Powerful men seized the wanton women to satisfy their animalistic desires.
I watched Clare with half an eye and counted her orgasms. The cheeky minx laughed as man after man spilt cum and alcohol over her naked body while she shuddered from the repeated climaxes.
My fiancée was the centre of attention, whilst being fucked in front of her lover. This touched every aspect of her sexuality. Danny roared when he realised I was her partner and that the bald-headed 45-year-old was the husband of 23-year-old Amy.
"This cock just fucked your bitch and your bitch!" He said loudly.
"Boys," Clare cooed. "Perhaps you should kiss his magnificent prick to show your gratitude." Danny shivered at the prospect, grunting something derogatory. The beach-blonde tattooed player, called Louis, was less homophobic. He withdrew his prick from Amy's mouth and summoned Sean.
I envied the submissive waiter. His lips closed around the hairless cock and slowly bobbed up and down on the muscle-clad athlete's dick. He took care, lavishing and worshipping the superior masculinity with his tongue.
Sean's cock leaked. It always did when he gave head and sent his bisexual side into overdrive. His trophy wife lay next to him and stroked his buttcheeks as he supped the stout prick of the Mancunian Adonis. Chiselled stomach with a six pack to rival any athlete. Strong, bulging leg muscles and a hairless, inked body to drive anyone wild with desire. Sean was in paradise. And Louis wasn't far behind. Every slurp and pull on the footballer's dick was a heavenly act that brought him closer and closer to the edge.
Louis squealed, grabbed his cock, jerked it a few strokes and spewed several waves of cum over the accountant's expectant face. "Now kiss your husband," Louis ordered Amy and watched her debase herself.
My attention turned to the corner of the room where Victoria and Danny sat opposite each other. "Vodka," Danny answered.
"My Sambuca."
Martin lined a row of eight shot glasses up in front of each of them, and he passed me a bottle of High Street spirit. "Pour Danny's."
Eight shots of grain vodka on the containers in front of him. Martin poured two for his wife and then had to open a fresh bottle to complete the chain.
Both Victoria and her opponent breezed through the first few; the clear liquids downed with impressive speed. Bawdy cheering, interspersed with fucking and rampant debauchery, filled the room. Danny struggled on his fifth shot and swayed badly after his sixth.
