Entertaining at Large Ch. 11

Susan first appeared in Entertaining at Home. Other characters mentioned joined the story in subsequent episodes. If you like the look of this it might be worth checking them out to discover people's back story. Comments, suggestions and support welcomed as always and thanks to those of you who already have.

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Reducing four men to the point of sweaty, breathless surrender was as much fun as I thought it would be. All four were flat out, stomachs heaving up and down as they used all available muscles to suck in air. Groans went round the quartet in small circles. Each of their faces was red and sweaty. Fractured curses in Polish and English occasionally escaped limp lips. I stood over them legs apart, my hands on my hips, shaking my head. Steve stared up at me with a look closer to hate than love. He was the first to speak.

'That was.'

'Stimulating?'

'Nah.'

'Exciting?'

'Piss off. It was attempted murder.'

The session had started off easily enough. At least for me it did. I had spent the day with Muhammad discussing our approach to changes the way our firm did business. The CEO had given us a copy of the report he was going to present to the board the next day. It gave the two of us a company-wide brief to analyse current working practices and recommend changes. We had agreed it was an exciting challenge and I had ridden home at speed before changing and driving back into town to be ready for the five-a-side team's training session.

The lads had gone down the pub after work and warmed up by having a couple of pints of lager and a sandwich each; ham and cheese by the look of the pool of vomit Luke had deposited at the side of the pitch. I was surprised at how pleased I was to see them after a fortnight apart. I watched them straggle over to the pitch from the changing rooms with a rising heart. Luke was in front all bustle and waving his arms around more like a cricket fast bowler than a mediocre non-league striker. Wot followed him walking mostly but occasionally jogging rapidly on the spot. Piotr had his arm around Steve's shoulder and the two were deep in conversation. I would have bet my house it was about the latter's unhappy relationship.

The way they greeted me was typical of each of them. Luke grabbed me, both hands on my arse, and lifted me bodily from the ground.

'Missed me?'

'Not for an instant, so put me down.'

Wot took my hand, raised it to his lips and then stared into my eyes for a long moment before releasing it.

'It is a pleasant to see you again.'

He gave a little bow. I stroked one of his cheeks and then kissed the other.

'You too, Wot. Good Xmas?'

He nodded and looked like he was composing a reply in his head before grinning shyly.

'I have forgotten all English. So just "yes".'

Piotr shook my hand smiling. I wasn't having that. I hugged him before giving him a peck on the lips. He blushed and we both laughed. Steve I held for longer. The whole world knew from his texts and posts that he had had a less than satisfactory time. I wanted to offer comfort, support and to stop him running through the whole disaster again. It was a cool January evening and we needed to get running.

There was an interesting dynamic in the group as we stretched and bent, none of really sure what to do next. I had assumed we would just get together and kick a ball around for a bit before adjourning to the Crown. Luke had other ideas. Usually Steve was the unacknowledged leader of the gang. It was to him he others turned to make hard decisions - like which pub to go to - or raise difficult questions. He had made the running on the evening we had first met in persuading me to do a striptease for them and then let them fuck me in every available orifice.

Tonight Luke had definitely taken on the mantle of the man in charge. The others probably let him because he was the only one with a full-time gym membership. I knew my place; the goalie's job is to stand at the back shouting encouragement before pulling their balls out of the fire by making spectacular saves. I sort-of managed that about half the time.

He led us on a gentle jog around the perimeter of the all-weather pitch. He took the lead, chest out and lifting his knees like a show pony. The rest of us straggled behind smiling indulgently and laughing at the way the loose elastic on Luke's shorts spoiled his display of prowess as he kept having to pull them up when they slipped to the top of his buttocks. It was probably the mockery coming from behind him which made him order a second circuit. He slipped back to join us and started talking about his break back in his home town.

To hear him tell it he had, in the course of a week, had his way with most of the available women in the place. As the boys worked together, I presumed the tale was for my benefit and, as a friend, I tried to pay attention. The high point of his trip up-north had been a New Year's Eve threesome with a couple of girls - lasses he called them - he'd been at school with. At the end of the evening they were the only ones who hadn't copped off and went back to his mother's house.

'Me mam were over at her boyfriend's so we had the place to ourselves.'

I was impressed by how his accent had broadened in the week away.

'One of them had the biggest tits I've ever seen. Out to here they were. She were a big girl at school, but now.'

He whistled. The overall impact of his gross exaggeration, however, was undermined by the fact that as he stretched out both arms his shorts fell to his knees. He was wearing training pants underneath so the embarrassment was minimal. The mockery from the rest of us, however, was more arch than friendly and he grumbled to himself as he stopped to take off the malfunctioning shorts and balled them into a pocket. The others kept going but I stayed with him, jogging on the spot as I waited.

'Amy had the tiniest boobs ever. They were double-A if there is such a thing. But her nipples. Every time someone touched them she'd squeal. It were a hoot.'

I fell in beside him. I had a feeling this was going to be a long tale. Part of being one of the lads meant that I had to listen to their inflated tales of sexual conquest and pretend to be impressed. If half of what he told me was true, that was indeed was a night to remember. I made the appropriate noises as he ran through the order in which his fingers, tongue and cock entered mouths, pussies and anuses.

I avoided putting my foot in it when he described watching the two women eat each other out. He thought it was a show for his benefit whilst he recovered from his orgasm. I had tried and failed to persuade them all that women enjoyed sex too. All four of them still worked on the assumption that we rationed intercourse on some sort of punishment-reward system and that if only they could crack our secret code they'd be in clover.

We had all started on our third lap of the pitch by the time Luke got to explaining how he got his third erection of the morning - he had apparently received a blow job from each of them on waking - watching the pair urinate. The rest of the team were getting restless. They had found a ball and were passing it inexpertly between them as they jogged. As they finished their lap they stopped and began heckling us to get a move on. If anything Luke slowed further.

'You ever had a threesome, Susan?'

There was something about his tone which made it sound more like a challenge than and enquiry. I silently invoked lad's privileges and bit back.

'Since I last saw you, you mean?'

'Yeah.'

His disbelief was tangible.

'Just the two. One better than the other, but both had their moments.'

I skipped ahead of him before he could comment. I dropped my head and put my hands on my knees when I reached the others feigning exhaustion. They laughed, but when I looked up Luke's face was like thunder. There was clearly something wrong. Being out-boasted was an everyday event among us. As his friend I was concerned; as his teammate I took no responsibility at all. Luke barked out an order.

'Right, dribbling.'

Steve and Piotr made a private joke and started laughing. Wot joined in once Piotr translated. That, in my view, made things worse; the other three seemed completely oblivious however. Between gritted teeth Luke ordered Piotr and I to sprint to the other end of the pitch and await the delivery of the ball. We were going to do some kind of relay it seemed.

We had a long wait. Steve never had the best ball control. Tonight it was as if his feet were waiting to be introduced to each other. He fell over the ball twice before he got out of the arc demarking the goal area. The ball ran away from him constantly; usually sideways. It would have been hard not to laugh, so all of us except Luke decided not to bother trying. By the time he crossed the pitch and reached Piotr and I Steve was giggling too; Luke was beside himself. He raged at Steve's incompetence, our not taking practise seriously, even the ball and the state of the pitch.

'Is he alright?'

Steve shrugged.

'Obviously not. He's been like this since he came back from Yorkshire. Something's gone on, but if you ask him about it he just talks about all the women he screwed and all the "ale he supped".'

The last bit was a passable impersonation of Luke's accent, at least to my ears. We shared a look of concern and watched the man himself attempting to show us how it was supposed to be done after Piotr delivered the ball to him. Unfortunately, whilst he was better than Steve - everyone's better than Steve - he had similar problems so he was roundly jeered as he stumbled across to me and the others gave him an ironic round of applause as the ball, and moments later the man, arrived at my feet.

I was brilliant, even if I do say so myself. Whilst men seem to look on football skills as sone kind of genetic inheritance which gifts them innate ability, I had had to learn ball control after joining the team. And I had been trained by the best - YouTube. Like an arrow, I crossed at speed towards Wot. I did a couple of Ronaldo-style crossovers and little shimmies as I crossed the half way line. Just before I got to the clearly impressed Pole I trapped the ball and stood with it between my feet.

For some time, I had been trying that trick where you flick the ball behind you with both feet so that it arcs over your head and drops at your feet. Invariably when I did I ended up flat on my face on my increasingly muddy lawn and the ball landed in next door's garden. So often had this happened that the neighbours, a pleasant, elderly couple who liked a good laugh as much as the next, allowed me to scale the fence and get my ball back without disturbing them for permission. That night, however, I was on a roll and the manoeuvre came off perfectly.

Things went downhill from there so far as Luke was concerned. Ball skills were abandoned for shooting practise after he fell over twice during his next attempt. I probably didn't help his mood by conducting a running commentary on my teammates' inadequacies as they hit shots for me to save. The others took the whole thing in good heart gripping their faces in mock agonies when they missed, pulling their shirts over their faces league-style when they scored.

'Oh my gosh, ladies and gentlemen, you're not going to believe this. The goalie's got tits. And she's not afraid to show 'em. Will he ever get over the humiliation?'

I had just dived full-length to tip a malicious thunderbolt from Luke around the post when I pulled off the stunt. I had tugged up my jumper in imitation of their celebrations and my bra came with it. My athleticism drew appreciative applause from Steve, Piotr and Wot. I guess that's what made me flash them. Their whistles and hoots made it almost compulsory that I keep shaking my boobs for longer than was strictly necessary; that and the feeling of the cold air puckering my nipples into tight pink buttons. It was delicious.

Luke was beside himself. And writing a stiff letter to the FA demanding an instant red card for women players who exposed themselves on the pitch was not going to cut it. He signalled us all to one side of the pitch.

'Right you lot, full sprints. Loser buys the first round.'

He set off immediately and the rest of us followed at speed. He was always the fastest runner and had no doubt issued the challenge certain he would get his own back on all of us, especially me. He overlooked a couple of important things, however.

First up, such a challenge to the lads was like showing a greyhound a rabbit. Instinct took over and they pounded after him with a vengeance. I, on the other hand, know my limitations, had no illusions that I could keep up with them and set myself a sustainable pace. By the end of the second length I was about half-a-pitch behind them but keeping the margin steady.

Secondly, Luke had overlooked our relative holiday-period training regimes. Whilst he and the rest of them had been downing rich food and immeasurable quantities of booze and sitting on their bums watching TV, I had been largely teetotal, cycled every day and been pretty abstemious all round. I overhauled Steve first. That spurred him on to even greater effort, so he was the first to fall from exhaustion.

Wot and Pete both ricocheted off the fence and fell beside him after chasing me the full length of the pitch when I overtook them. Luke refused to give up. It was only his overwhelming need to puke which eventually laid him low. Which is where we came in.

We were a sorry bunch as we trailed over to the Crown. I walked with Piotr and Wot. We talked about Poland and Pete patiently explained the differences in celebrations between our two countries. As far as I could work it out Hollywood has not yet replaced religion as the main focus of family events and flavoured vodka still gives Starbucks a good run for their money. Wot spoke coyly about meeting up with old friends. I presumed that meant he had been using his newly-acquired Western European sophistication to get into girls' pants, but I was too much of a lady to press the topic.

Steve and Luke straggled behind us deep in conversation. It was difficult to tell from brief glances over my shoulder which was unburdening himself of his troubles and which was listening sympathetically. It was a sure fire bet that neither was offering the other sage advice.

'What's up with Luke? Do you know anything?'

'No. He has been irritating and irritated ever since we came back.'

Piotr looked perplexed. Wot just nodded and smiled; he clearly needed to start working on his English again and quick.

'We were hoping that perhaps you might persuade him to tell us what was wrong.'

'I doubt he'd talk to me. I'm hardly his favourite person at the moment.'

We pushed through the double doors into the pub and conversation stopped, as did all three of us. It was the smell that first hit you. It took a moment for me to realise that it was fresh paint. But even when I did I stood there sniffing. It took another minute to work out that the smell of stale beer had been almost entirely overwhelmed and the vestigial remnants of old nicotine had disappeared completely. Wot was screwing up his nose and looking at Pete with a shocked expression. He just looked blank.

'It's the smell of fresh paint.'

Pete nodded and hastily translated. Wot started to look relieved, but not completely. All our eyes were darting around the big open bar. Almost all the tables and chairs had been piled together on the stage. Empty of furniture the place looked big enough for us to have held our kick around indoors. I looked up at the ceiling. The lighting was the same as it had always been but the place looked positively bright.

'So what do you think?'

JD was wearing painter's overalls and a big grin.

'Amazing, JD, is the only word that fits. Who knew pink could look so bright.'

I looked around the bar again. Every piece of available paintwork had been transformed.

'Technically it's fuchsia.'

He gave me a knowing wink.

'Cerise at a pinch. Don't mention the "p" word near George. He's still getting used to it.'

I hugged JD as we laughed pulling back rapidly when I realised I might be taking a colour sample home with me on my clothes.

'Don't worry. These are clean, I just got changed.'

I decided not to ask the obvious questions. I just presumed all his civvies were in the wash. That and the fact my eyes were feasting on the brilliant white paint which surrounded the bar. Even the wallpaper looked new. I ran a finger over the nearest panel. JD anticipated my next question.

'No. Just cleaned it.'

'It looks new, what did you use?'

'Sorry, luv. Secret recipe. Known only to me and a few tens of thousands other painters and decorators. Be more than my life's worth if I told you.'

I mirrored his serious, knowing look for the few seconds it took before we both laughed again.

'Weren't there bald patches?'

'Mandy's work.'

He nodded to a couple of places on the walls. Framed posters had appeared In the places I remembered the flock being particularly patchy. All had a large banner proclaiming the name of the pub at the top. Most advertised what I presumed were bands; I didn't recognise any of the names. One or two, though we're for striptease nights and carried prominent, if grainy, pictures of plump girls wearing too much make up dropping articles of clothing from outstretched hands. The overall effect of the new artwork raised the tone of the place from absolute dump to the middle reaches of what could be objectively called a dive.

'You must let me get you a drink to say thanks.'

'No need. I've already about three pints to get through over there.'

He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of a table at the back of the room.

'And young Tracey's been, well, more than...'

He paused as if searching for the right word. It didn't arrive.

'Hospitable?'

'That'll do it. I'll have to get my apprentice out of here soon or he'll be bringing a camp bed tomorrow.'

JD wandered back to his table as, right on cue, the girl herself appeared. She pushed a rather red-faced, not bad looking guy in front of her as she emerged from the door at the side of the bar. He was still struggling with his flies, she gave his back a cheery wave as he headed for JD's little nook and diverted to the bar where she finished off a half-drunk alcopop in one long swallow. I went over to her as she wiped her arm across her mouth.

'What Ho, Tracey. Busy night? Let me get you another.'

'Oh, hello Susan. You should try one of these. George's got a new flavour in. Aloe Vera. Tastes like melon. Really good for, you know.'

Everyone seemed stuck for words tonight.

'Cleansing the palate?'

She frowned and leaned towards me conspiratorially.

'Whatever. Here, have you noticed how all young lads' spunk tastes like salt 'n vinegar crisps?'

'Can't say I have, no.'

'Think about it. Our Jason's just the same.'

She looked around the bar and let out a deep sigh.

'Problems?'

'Nah, not really. It's just that I was really looking forward to a shag. That one was a bit of a disappointment.'

She nodded at the boy now looking much more relaxed as he sat with JD. He beamed back at her.

'Second time I've been to the Ladies with him. Selfish bastard came as soon as I got him hard.'

I made sympathetic noises; we've all been there, right? Tracey hadn't finished complaining.

'Sprayed about half-a-pint of cum in my gob. Better not have got any on my blouse, it's new.'

She looked down suddenly, licked her finger and rubbed at what turned out to be an imaginary spot. Her large breasts wobbled beneath the gauzy fabric. One of the nipples pressed prominently against the clearly visibly lace bra she was wearing. I fought the temptation to reach over and tweak the other.