Chapter 11: Super Bowl Free-Use Humiliation Marathon

Tyler’s final thrust buried deep in my ass, his cock pulsing as the last of his load flooded me, warm and thick. I stayed straddled across Mark’s face, my soaked folds grinding slow circles against the duct-taped jersey gag, smearing the fresh mix of my squirt and everyone else’s cum across his nose and mouth. His ragged breaths puffed hot through the fabric, desperate little huffs that vibrated right against my swollen clit and made my hips twitch involuntarily. The basement smelled like raw sex now—thick, salty, unmistakable—but the guys weren’t done. Jake reached for the remote on the coffee table, clicked the basement TV on, and the third quarter of the Super Bowl roared to life in surround sound. The commentators’ voices filled the space, crisp and excited, cutting through the wet sounds still echoing off the walls.

“Game’s back on, boys,” Jake said casually, cracking open a fresh beer from the humming fridge. Foam hissed over the rim as he took a long pull, then passed the can to Chris. They settled in like it was any other Sunday—shirts off, cocks still half-hard and glistening, passing snacks from the tray someone had carried down earlier. Wings, chips, more beer. Mark stayed strapped in the recliner two feet away, eyes wild behind the tears, his muffled grunts barely audible over the TV. I stayed right where I was for another heartbeat, legs trembling, before Jake hooked an arm around my waist and lifted me off my husband’s face like I weighed nothing.

The real marathon started then. They turned me into their living toy, passing me around the basement while the game played on, every cheer and every play dictating exactly how hard they used me. I was on the sectional first, bent over the backrest facing the TV so Mark had a perfect side view. Mike slid in behind me, his quiet accountant hands spreading my cheeks as he pushed into my pussy raw. The stretch was easy now, slick with all the loads already inside me, but he took his time, grinding deep while the commentators called a big run for our team. “That’s our boys,” Mike murmured against my ear, voice low enough that the TV almost covered it. “But you’re rooting for the other side tonight, aren’t you, Velvet?”

I nodded, breath catching as he picked up speed. The words came out shaky but clear, just like they wanted. “Come on, visitors ... beat our team.” Chris laughed from the couch, cracking another beer, the can clinking as he set it down. When the rival team scored on the next drive—touchdown, extra point—the guys cheered louder than the TV. Mike slammed into me harder, hips snapping, the wet slap of skin loud enough to compete with the crowd roar. “That’s it—say their name while we fuck you like they’re beating ours.” I gasped it out between thrusts, voice breaking: “Visitors ... fuck me harder for the visitors.” Another squirt escaped around Mike’s cock, soaking the sectional cushion and dripping onto the floor in a hot rush that made my thighs shake.