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.
“Thank these lovely men, Jon,” Victoria scolded. “They have given your fiancée a wonderful afternoon. The sort of sexual satisfaction, you, cannot give her!” The laughter was cruel, and the comment unnecessary. I mumbled in annoyance, and Clare squeezed my hand.
I was glad to return to the summerhouse before tea, and Martin chuckled as I grumbled about Victoria. “My wife is a vicious witch when she wants to be. You should have just accepted that you don’t need to pay. She’ll just keep on reinforcing that. She will take your pride, not your pounds.” He passed me a beer from the fridge in the kitchen and sat down on the leather chair opposite. “She did it with Andrew Hamilton. They stayed for a few months a couple of years ago. He did the same thing. He needed to stay with us before he moved to Australia, and he was insistent. She almost broke him until he backed down and apologised.”
I shook my head. “Why?”
“Victoria is hospitable, and she loves to give. Pain, sex, pleasure, dinner, and so on. Offering to pay when she says ‘no’ makes her cross. You offered, she said no. That’s the end of it. Just accept that we like your company. That’s payment enough for both of us.” He smiled and sat back on the cool seat, and put his feet on a stool. “The quicker you accept that, the quicker she’ll stop trying to strip you off your dignity. I can tell you don’t like it.”
“She couldn’t have done much more today,” I grumbled.
“Just you wait,” Martin replied ominously. After dinner, I repeated my complaints to Clare before we settled in her room to watch a film and eat popcorn. We kissed, and I gave her a massage before sliding my tongue along her well-fucked slit to bring my slut to a delicious orgasm.
Victoria’s campaign continued the following day. After work, she passed me a bag of clothes and an address. “Clare is going to have dinner with Alex,” she announced. “You met him yesterday. He fucked her on the hood of his shagmobile.” She sniggered as she spoke. “He wants you to pick her up from that address at eight. Wearing that.”
I could hear the dangerous cruelty in her voice. It dripped with fiendish malevolence as I snatched the carrier bag from her grasp. Martin looked away from me. “Jon, you do know, Clare has given me free rein to discipline you in my dungeon if there is any sort of insubordination while she is away. Clare is going to a party which she has an invitation to. I have requested you to collect your partner from that party. Is there a problem?”
“No, but …”
She cut across me. “Cuckolds will do whatever a lady instructs them to do. Those are the House Rules. And that sounds like you were about to be insubordinate. Would you like to rethink the words you were about to say?”
“I’m fine,” I snapped.
“Excellent,” Victoria hissed. “That is wonderful. If you find you are struggling, Jon, I have some brilliant methods of persuasion in my dungeon downstairs. Do you need any help?”
“No, I understand.”
I didn’t dare look in the bag of clothes until I was in the summerhouse, and after Martin and I had cleared and tidied the kitchen. Martin and Victoria were enjoying an evening together, and I sat on the couch with my book for an hour.
The address was a twenty minute drive away, at a student flat in Manchester suburb. The outfit was a neon rainbow coloured tutu, a pair of shocking pink stockings, a bright pink pair of Doc Martens boots. I stood bare-chested and ridiculous, and swore loudly.
While I drove to the student accommodation, I reconsidered the hold that Victoria had on me and my relationship. She was Clare’s best friend, but she was taking an unnecessarily keen interest in humiliating me. After all, was it so bad that someone would want to contribute to the bills of their host?
The moment I stepped from my warm car to the cool Mancunian autumn, I heard laughter. Two girls, waiting at the bus stop opposite where I had parked the pink VW Beetle and next to a large five-storey block of student flats.
I hurried down the main path and entered the double doors, scanning the numbers on a plaque on the wall. “Fancy dress, mate?” A voice to my right laughed. Two guys chuckled as they passed, and one turned to surreptitiously photograph me on his phone. I’d be the butt of a few giggles in the bar later.
Flat 302 was on the third floor, and I took the steps two at a time, until I stood outside my destination. Music came from within and the tall, scrawny student who had fucked my fiancée on the hood of her car opened the door with a wide grin.
“Guys, who ordered a sissy?”
“I’m here to pick up Clare.”
“So are half the University!” I was eager to get out of the corridor and asked if I could come in. He pulled his tracksuit bottoms to his knees. “Kiss and thank this prick for making your bird orgasm,” the cocky lad said loudly and watched as my knees hit the cheap carpet and my lips caressed the damp bulbous head of his dick.
“Thank you for making Clare orgasm.”
He sniggered and beckoned me into the room. Clare was naked. She had tied her brown hair into a ponytail, and she was sitting on the sofa between two half-naked men while drinking a beer.
The room reeked of pot and alcohol. Beer cans were scattered across the table and the worktop, and I counted seven men lounging about the flat, before Clare looked up at me from the sofa, and smiled.
“One last thing before we go,” she said and got up from the couch. She kissed me on the lips before picking up a mug from the table. It was filled with used condoms and I groaned.
One by one, she cut the teat of the condoms and drained the watery cum into a small wine glass. “Nine, I think,” she muttered and passed it to me. “The guys want to see you drink their cum.”
My cheeks burnt as the juvenile University students chanted. “Down it! Down it!” Clare rubbed my bum through the tutu and I sighed, picked up the glass and emptied the musky mixture onto my tongue.
Some cheered, others laughed. The immaturity of it torched my ego. Of course, I swallowed cum. I was a bisexual submissive cuckold. It was ridiculous to think that I would feel shame for doing that. Clare grabbed her bag and disappeared into the bathroom. “Tasty, was it?” One asked me and I just shrugged. I felt more embarrassed by the outfit which Victoria had chosen.
“Nice enough,” I replied. “I’ve had nicer, and worse. Eat more pineapple. Less processed food.” Clare entered the room, wearing an identical outfit, except she had a thin leotard to hide her bare breasts. The men hollered as she stepped into the room and twirled for them. Clare loved the attention.
She said goodbye to each guy, kissing them on the cheek, and then patted me on the backside as we left their student flat. “Like the tutu?” Clare giggled. “Those guys were such fun, but I couldn’t see them too often. Intense, and not all in a good way,” she told me. “I mean, I like sex, but they were not good at seduction. Even for a slut like me!”
I grunted and unlocked the car. “You suit this garb better than I do,” I moaned.
“Nonsense. Oh, and Victoria sent me a message. We need to stop off to get four bottles of white wine and pick up some pizzas.”
“Well, I can stay in the car.”
“That’s not what she said,” Clare giggled. “She wants proof of you in the off-licence and takeaway.”
“For fuck’s sake.”
“She knows what she is doing,” Clare giggled.
The female off-license worker smiled as we took four bottles of wine to the checkout, and the girl giggled as Clare put thirty pounds on the counter. “Fancy dress?”
“Yeah,” I replied with a grin. “Her idea.”
“Must be cold out there to be topless!” She asked me and then picked up her phone to photograph me. “Ya mind?”
“Of course not!” Clare replied and looped her arm through mine. She smiled at the girl behind the counter before we left.
The takeaway owner didn’t even care that he had two half-naked people in his establishment. He never batted an eyelid as the ludicrously dressed individuals paid for the pizza on the order. I guess he had seen far worse.
I dreaded what Victoria would come up with on Tuesday, but I got up, worked and helped Martin cook tea, without hearing a peep from the sadistic mistress of the house. She passed us her plate when she had finished and complimented me on a wonderful curry, well presented.
“He’s very domesticated,” Victoria teased, and patted me on the head. “I was looking in our dungeon, and it hasn’t been cleaned for a couple of weeks. Boys, I have a job for you this evening.”
She rose from the table and tipped a plastic bag onto her place mat. Two sealed packages came out, and she passed one to me. “The dungeon needs cleaning, properly attired of course.”
The cheap, poorly made French Maid Outfit was a deliberate humiliation. Victoria raised her eyebrows at me as I snatched the package from the table to get dressed.
I looked ridiculous. The straps and low-cut of the cheap French Maid outfit would have been an enticing revelation if I had possessed the appropriate sized chest. The panties were tight around my crotch, and the thigh-high fishnet stockings were thin and flimsy.
“Perfect,” Victoria cried and passed me a small toolbox of cleaning equipment. “Off you go.”
Martin waited until we were both in the dungeon when he glared at me. “Just apologise to my wife, please. Accept that she doesn’t want your money.”
“No.”
“Jon, you’re being stubborn. If you apologise, it all stops.”
“I …”
“Unless you don’t want it to stop!” Martin teased. “Perhaps you like being dressed as a sissy and made to clean a bondage dungeon!”
“No, but … it’s wrong for us to stay with you and not pay! I am earning. Clare is earning. At least let us …”
Martin interrupted me with a groan and threw a feather duster at me. “Start at the top,” he barked, and I ran the bright yellow duster over the tops of the picture frames, bondage furniture and cages. I treated the wooden handles and benches with wood oil, and polished the metal until it gleamed.
Every movement reinforced the uncomfortable outfit. Cheap polyester itched, the underwear rode up my backside and kneeling on the tights were painful. It was exhausting, and two hours later, Victoria’s heels on the steps echoed into the vast playspace. “Look how well they’ve done,” she cried. “It’s like having domestic servants. And you earning your keep. Car Washer. Chauffeur. Maid. I told you, you’d do jobs!”
She giggled and the powerful woman grabbed my arm and pulled me to a St Andrew’s Cross. “I have something I want to try.”
I looked for Clare, but my partner wasn’t in the dungeon and Martin looked shiftily at me. The straps of the cross fastened my wrists and ankles to the wall, and she selected a long thin nylon cane from her selection.
“I want to know, if you can take more hits of this implement than my subby husband.” She announced and stood behind me.
The first lash I felt as if I was on bare skin. The thin black polyester dress and panties did nothing to break the strike that landed on my rump with an agonising whack. I screamed and yelled.
Victoria was merciless. She swiped my backside once more, laughing to herself as I struggled against my bonds. “Stop it, stop it!” I cried in agony, hot strikes across my covered flesh, and she whispered in my ear.
“Spoil sport. I was just getting started. You see, I have a businessman that comes to see me every Wednesday. And he pays me to break him. He gives me dough so I turn him into a blubbering, screaming, bawling mess of pathetic filth. I don’t need the money, but he’s a cunt, and he’s rich, and the cash goes straight to the village foodbank that I run.” I gulped. “So if you pay money in this house to me, I will assume that it is a payment to break you until you’re a shivering wreck. Is that clear?”
“But …”
I never finished my sentence as the strike of the cane landed squarely in the middle of my bum and my words turned into a violently shouted profanity. “On your butt, with pleasure!” Victoria squealed and smashed the weapon into my polyester-clad rump.
Martin untied me, and I moaned to Clare in her room. She laughed as she rubbed ointment into my wound. “OK. You and Victoria are waving your dicks about. You won’t win. She has bigger balls than you. Much bigger balls. Just accept that she doesn’t want our money.”
“I do, but it’s not right. Can’t we at least say that she gives it to the charity she runs?”
“You have that discussion with her.” Clare looked at me and shook her head. “I had the same chat with her and she gave me the same answer. She loves Martin, and she loves me. Let it go.”
The following day, I broached the idea of charitable giving over lunch. “It’s a compromise,” I suggested. “I feel like I am contributing and your charity gets extra money.”
Her lips pursed. “I don’t do compromise, Jon. And the Foodbank is well resourced because of a legacy that my husband made two years ago. And the two businessman who come to my dungeon every week pay me serious money to beat them raw. You are our friends. You are here to accept our hospitality.” She looked at her watch and then at me. “Which reminds me, Jacob will be here soon and I need to get the battery out. It’s been a while since I attached his balls to a few volts. Scram, unless you want me to test it on you.”
That evening, Victoria and Clare took us to their sex club for a “special evening.” We went in Clare’s car and my fiancée put her hand on mine as we drove to the manor house, squeezing it as I drove.
The event was in full swung, and we took the last car parking space. Victoria strode into the main hall with a broad smile on her face.
Mud Wrestling. All-male submissive mud wrestling.
She grinned as I took in the display; Martin and I were both entered, with losers in the game given a forfeit.
I was lucky and got a bye in the first round. I watched Martin easily pin down a weedy, slender man who slipped and flailed in the thin mud pit.
My first match was against a large older gentleman. Women lined the pit, hollering as I climbed into the twenty square metre, inflatable pit and slipped on the grey-brown substance under my feet.
Naked. I shivered from cold and from anxiousness. This was Victoria’s game, but I had never done mud wrestling before. I never questioned her, but like Martin, waiting on the sidelines and covered in mud, I faced “Sammy” – a robust, wheezing man with endless sprouting hair and a scowling face.
I didn’t see my opponent’s earlier match, but it had covered his rotund body with streaks of mud.
I struggled to keep my balance as I stood in the inflatable ring. The slippery mud oozed between my toes and reached my ankles as I needed to use my arms to leverage my balance.
Sammy had more trouble, and his right foot slipped to leave him kneeling in the silky brown ooze. I guessed Sammy was around fifteen years older than me. His overweight body suggested a lack of mobility and he possessed little balance.
Sammy stumbled and tumbled into the mud, before he staggered to his feet. His primitive technique was to haul me onto the ground and then use his bodyweight to pin me to the mat. It almost worked, as my opponent launched himself on top of me, and I had top use the lubricious nature of the clay mud to slide from underneath him.
His downfall came when he over-reached as he tried to grab my ankles and he lost his battle against gravity. I used my naked body to glide over him and hold him face-first into the mud. After my victory, the organisers hosed me down with a cold water shower.
Martin was next on the mat and was easily beaten by a Daniel Radcliffe lookalike. My host floundered in the mat, and the young man swiftly bettered the businessman.
The Quarter-Final was between myself and Martin’s conqueror. As I faced him, I could see better muscle definition than when I watched from the back of the room. He had strength and power that I didn’t, and I could see how Martin had succumbed so limply.
A second after the whistle blew, our hands grappled. His superior upper body strength was clear, but I had leg muscles from cycling. He pushed me back against the ring, but could leverage my strength against him.
He smelt of manly exertion, with the same smell and aura as Scott and the footballers, but there was a weakness in his wrestling. He relied on his upper body strength. I deliberately slipped and fell to my right knee to send my opponent crashing into the mud when his legs floundered and his body listed. A few moments later, he was eliminated.
Through the open door, I could see Martin attached to a set of stocks with at least one woman behind him wearing a large, robust strapon. He would be in heaven, and his forfeit would be far from unpleasant.
My semi-final match was against a quick-footed but robust gentleman of a similar age. The blonde-haired guy smirked as he saw me, and my tired muscles ached as he made quick work of the grappling to force me into a surrender.
Face down, I sputtered in the mud. His weight pressed down on me, and his dick rubbed against my ass crack as his body forced me into the cold, slippery goo.
Victoria smiled as I stumbled to me feet, and she guided me into a cold shower and then, while dripping, to a raffle box. “I entered the little maggot,” Victoria said to the organiser, staring at me. “I get to choose his forfeit.” The octagonal wooden cylinder, was rotated, and she flicked open a window to pull a random piece of paper from the box.
My fingertips tingled as she unfurled the forfeit. “Oh bugger!” She squealed and passed the paper to the organiser.
The rotund lady, stretching the black Latex garment, raised her eyebrows. “Your forfeit is to clean the Great Hall at the end of tournament.”
“Martin’s getting buggered by a hundred pricks, Joe’s getting whipped, Ankit is getting fucked on camera, and Oliver is getting pissed upon. Why couldn’t you get a proper forfeit! I need to strip this twat of his dignity!”
The organiser looked down her nose at Victoria with a disapproving look. Victoria’s mood didn’t improve when the other losing semi-finalist received an hour in the stocks.
After the final, two of us had to empty the mud from the paddling pool, carry it out outside, hose it down, clean it and then packed it away, before mopping and drying the floor of the Great Hall.
It was hard work, and Victoria prowled to ensure that I didn’t enjoy it. To be honest, I think I would rather have spent an hour in the stocks, pelted with unsavoury items and buggered mercilessly by dominant women and their stout strapons.
Although Victoria would never admit it, I had been punished by not being punished.
On Thursday, after work, I helped Martin cook a complicated dinner. We worked well as a team, and Scott – who came to the summerhouse – ambled up the garden path when he found the wooden play palace locked. He had messaged Martin earlier in the day to get something to eat as his boyfriend was working the late shift, and the bisexual star seated himself between our wives as they ate the three-course meal.
“I have a job for you, Scott,” Victoria asked him. “Only take an hour, or thereabouts.” She shot a look at me and then sent me out of the room to load the dishwasher.
“Here is a shopping list,” Clare told me and passed me a folded up piece of paper. She also held out a pint of water. “You will need to hydrate.”
“Why?”
Her eyebrows defied gravity for a moment and I sank the water in the tankard. I took the paper from her, and she called me back. “You need to get dressed first.”
“I …”
“We have what you need.” I groaned, and she grabbed my left hand and guided me into another room. I didn’t protest. Clare squeezed my hand as Victoria smirked at me and told me to lie on my back on her soft carpet.
I never even guessed what was in her bag, but the large adult nappy and pink plastic pants was not what I expected. She put a polyester tie on the plastic pants so I could not remove them without breaking the seal. Her way of control. The tight black shorts bulged and every time I moved, the crinkle of the pink plastic pants was clearly audible. “C’mon,” I hissed and grabbed the white T-shirt from the dominant woman.
“I want to discipline Martin. I’ve neglected him,” Victoria told us. “He’s not been bawling his eyes out for a week. So I want to inflict some real pain. You can go with Scott.”
The cheeky Geordie beamed as I walked out of the room with him. He snatched the shopping list from my grasp and he playfully rubbed my nappy on the bottom as we walked to the pink vehicle. “I’ll take that!”
It felt weird sitting on the padded cushion as I drove. It raised my driving position by an inch, but it was enough to feel weird as I drove.
The first stop on our trip was a public house in a neighbouring village. Scott directed to Victorian building, and we parked in their quiet car park. “Pint of Lemonade for you. A pint of cider for me,” Scott read out, and I ordered at the bar.
My heart raced and my nerves jangled. I imagined that everyone in the pub knew that a crazed dominant woman had dressed me in an adult nappy. I downed the drink quickly as I was eager to leave, but Scott slowly sipped his amber nectar while teasing.
He bought us another. I stared at the second pint of liquid and he smirked at me. “I forgot to take a picture of the first.”
“But …”
“It says two,” he told me as he held the shopping list in front of him. “So come on.”
“I hate you.”
“I hate you too!” Scott replied, as his lips closed around the pint of cider. My anxiousness reached new levels as I waited for him to finish his drink, and twenty minutes after we arrived at the vintage inn, we left.
I felt the pressure on my bladder as we entered the car. The road bumps leaving the village intensified the feeling.
The second stop was a fashion warehouse at an out-of-town retail park. My friend was coy about the task until we entered the shop and he selected a short yellow spandex dress. “Best try it on!”
“You must be joking!”
“This is what it says in the tasks.”
“This is beyond …” I shook my head and thought of my fiancée, before snatching the dress from him. The booth attendant did a double-take as she looked up from her phone screen to the two men walking towards her.
The plastic pants crackled as I walked. “One item,” Scott announced, with complete confidence. She hummed, and Scott smiled at her. “My friend lost a bet at work. He has to go to the Christmas Party in a dress and we’re just making sure that one fits.”
The girl sighed audibly. “Well, it’s not normal,” she muttered. “It’s unusual.”
“Our factory certainly is!” Scott replied; his personable confidence shone. In the changing room, my nerves returned. I slipped my shoes, shorts and T-shirt off, but the lycra dress showed the large soft lump around my waist.
“It’s on,” I cried and grabbed a shot of me wearing the dress in the mirror. I looked ludicrous, but Scott called from the other side of the curtain.
“Come out.”
“I can’t.”
“Oh, don’t be so silly,” Scott cried. “It’s just a dress. Let’s see if it fits.”
“No, you don’t understand. I can’t.”
“Jonny boy,” Scott teased, and I put my head out of the curtain. “C’mon. Quicker we get this done, the better.”
“My … thing shows.”
“That’s the idea,” Scott replied. “Come out, look in the mirror, let me take a photo and we’ll pay and go.”
I groaned, but he didn’t leave me with much choice, as he flung open the flimsy red curtain. The attendant gasped as I stood in front of them both wearing a tight-fitting bright yellow party dress that showed the hem of the plastic pants.
Scott took a picture of me in the centre of the store, grinning as he captured my humiliation on camera. “Turn around, Jonny Boy. Let’s see all of it.”
With flushed cheeks, I pulled the curtain back. “I’m fine.”
“You should wear that home. It’ll be perfect.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Victoria thinks so.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I grumbled. Scott smiled as I flung open the curtain once more, holding my original clothes and strode to the front of the store with a painful urge to pee in my bladder.
The store assistant stared. I heard sniggering and giggles as I queued. I was self-conscious and embarrassed. Mortified that I stood wearing nothing but an adult nappy, bright pink plastic pants and a bright yellow dress in the middle of a public store.
“I desperately need to pee,” I told Scott when I reached the car park. The black-haired footballer shook his head. “Go then.”
“I can’t.”
Scott laughed. “There’s two more things we need to pick up. He patted me on the rear. “You look so good in that dress. I’d fuck you.”
“You’d fuck me in anything,” I muttered. “Actually, you’d fuck anyone in anything.”
“Aye, that’s true,” my friend replied and opened the door to my car with a chuckle.
“Where are we going?” He refused to tell me, and gave me directions out of the retail park and onto the bypass, until we came to a small retail park and parked outside the large supermarket.
“Why?”
“You need to get a tube of KY Jelly, condoms, one cucumber and a four pack of beer.”
“Really?” I groaned. “But …”
“Victoria’s rules,” he muttered. He looked apologetically at me. “You know what she is like.”
I did. I could imagine the dominatrix chuckling to herself as she imagined the humiliating sight I made as I walked across the dark car park to the brightly lit store.
No-one cared or stared at me. Even as I tucked the tube of personal lubricant, packet of flavoured prophylactics or the phallic-shaped vegetable into my shopping basket, the other shoppers were wrapped in their own tasks.
I needed to pee. My bladder cramped as I desperately tried to concentrate on my task, as I navigated the shopping aisles. My body shivered as I mastered the urge to release in the supermarket. I almost ran to the checkout with the last item, throwing the four cans of beer onto the conveyor belt along with the humiliating things.
The young woman sniggered. She had clearly seen such dares before, and she subtly shook her head while my fingers shook with my credit card over the card machine.
My mind believed that I was on a stage as an audience watched and jeered at the cross-dresser wearing a nappy bought condoms, lube and a cucumber. My heart pounded and my fingers quivered.
No-one said a word. No-one gave me a second look. The sight of an incontinent transvestite shopping in a UK supermarket did not attract the attention I assumed it would.
Two steps outside the supermarket, the dam broke. I couldn’t stop myself as the pressure on my bladder swelled and piss jettisoned from my cock against the soft wall of the padded diaper.
I stopped and leant over the trolleys, breathing heavily as the wet warmth filled my crotch. But it was relief, not fear. Easement and relaxation rather than humiliation.
Scott giggled when my told him and he prodded my padded nappy. “Are we done now?”
“Not quiet,” Scott replied, and I slipped the car into first gear. “Almost.”
Three miles down the road, he directed me to pull into a layby on the busy bypass and parked at the back of the rest stop amongst the trees.
“Really?”
“Yes,” Scott replied. The lights from the lorry stop, 100m away, shone brightly but the little corner amongst the wooded glade was pitch black. He took my keys from my hand and ordered me out of the car.
He fastened a blindfold and handcuffs around my eyes and wrists, and Scott led me into the woods. “Am I doing what I think?”
I heard Scott chuckle and felt his breath on the nape of my neck. “Little slut like you, loves this sort of stuff!” His hands pushed on my shoulders and my knees landed on the soft earth with a gentle thud. Scott’s grip stopped me from falling further, as he had fastened my wrists behind my back.
“Open wide,” Scott said and laughed when my lips parted into an “O” shape.
I heard the snapping of twigs around me; I could have been in the centre of a Wiccan sacrifice and had to trust Scott to keep me from harm. My head turned every time I felt something or someone advancing on me. Scott’s hand had gone. I had no support. I felt nervous, unsure of what was around me.
And excited. Horny and excited. This was anonymous, filthy, disgusting sex, where I would not know who would use me. It could be the coach, the players, or even the newsagent at the end of the road who smiled at me as I bought my copy of The Guardian. It could be anyone and I might never know.
The first touch made me jump. Firm grasp of my shoulder to twist my body slightly, followed by a touch under my chin to raise my mouth.
I smelt grease. His fingers, laced with a motoring or engineering oil, manipulated my lips around his short, stubby prick. A pungent taste with a masculine odour. There was no doubt what the grunting man wanted.
A new experience; I had never given a blowjob on my knees in the woods blindfolded. I had never given any sexual pleasure when I hadn’t seen the lucky recipient. I had always had an element of control, but suddenly I had none.
The mechanic said nothing to me. He just grunted as I used my neck muscles to slide my tongue and mouth across his bare uncircumcised cock. No connection, no warmth, just a febrile dick sucking by a bound submissive.
A short grunt, and the engineer held the back of my head with his greasy hands and a few squirts of his cum hit the top of my mouth.
Moments later, another replaced him. Longer, thinner, and cleaner. He smelt of a complex aftershave, laced with sophistication, but aggressively ploughed my mouth until my palette hurt.
Another replaced him. Scott had taken me to become a vending machine for blowjobs, but without the gift of sight, I could had to rely on my other senses. Two wrapped their pricks in condoms, and the chemical latex taste was a hundred times worse than the dirtiest dick. Perhaps I was a kinky sub who enjoyed nasty, or perhaps the natural scent was a natural aphrodisiac for me.
I tasted eight loads that night before Scott took me back to my car. He chuckled as he saw the cum stains over the dress and I massaged my aching jaw. “Victoria said you looked like a fucking slut,” he announced and held up my phone. “Was live streaming it to her. She loved it.” I sighed at his cheeky expression. “Did you?”
“I felt like a cheap whore!” I moaned.
“Yeah, I knew you’d like it!” He replied with a chuckle. “Oh, wave at Julian, he fed you some of his legendary ball juice!” He pointed at a well-dressed man jumping from the cab of a lorry driver. “He’s very versatile!”
I didn’t know what to say, as my car pulled away from the cruising spot, and we said nothing as I drove around the mile from the bypass to Victoria’s abode. The pressure in my bladder was nothing to the shame I felt.
I didn’t want to have enjoyed it. I didn’t want to have found giving blowjobs to anonymous men, while wearing a wet adult nappy and a short summer dress to be a turn-on, but it was. The complete humiliation was an intense experience, and I wanted to process it.
And I desperately wanted it to be a punishment. I needed to file the evening as angry dominance from Victoria who had sought retribution by forcing me to do disgusting, dreadful, nasty acts of humiliation. It was the lady of the house showing her control. It was something I had endured.
Only, I knew that was untrue. It was not something I wanted to repeat or acknowledge, but deep down, I knew that my sexuality had expanded that evening. I had been a slut, a whore and a filthy creature, and I had savoured the experience.
“That looks a very full nappy,” Victoria crowed, and chuckled. “And the little slut has cum stains all over his dress.” She pointed at my fiancée in a sheer negligee. “So does she! Our guests are right whores!” I know I blushed, and she patted the large changing mat on the floor. “OK, let’s get you changed, and into a romper suit for beddy-byes. And try not to have a dirty night.”
“Can I just go get a shower?” I asked, and she shook her head. “Please.”
“Of course not. Unless we have that discussion about you offering a grovelling apology and admit you were wrong?” Victoria spat and I nodded.
“OK. I humbly apologise. I was wrong and I understand. I will not offer you payment for your hospitality again.”
“Cucks pay in dignity and respect. If they don’t believe that, I love to strip them of all of it.” Clare sniggered as our host glared at me. “I want you to promise me that you will never talk about paying for your accommodation. We want you and Clare to stay and that’s enough. OK?”
I looked at my fiancée. “Yes, I promise. Please can I have a shower and get cleaned up now?”
Victoria addressed Clare. “Do you think he’s had enough and learnt his lesson?”
Clare nodded and squeezed my hand. “Yeah. We know you make the law ‘round here and that you don’t want payment. We won’t bring it up again.”
Victoria smiled at her friend. “It’s really, really good to have you here. Both of you. We love having guests and people in the lifestyle staying with us, and it’s so much better when it’s our special friends. We can afford it. We have a tidy investment income. To be honest, running this house is a pittance. We’re lucky. Let us share that with you. Especially you, Clare. I’m so excited that you’ve come up to stay with us. I’m so going to enjoy having you here. Both of you. And I only really enjoy breaking my husband’s resolve. He deserves it and when he screams, it really makes my day.” She smiled at me. “Go get your shower. And by the way, you can wear that dress tomorrow. See what the footballers think. It suits you!”
The following day, things were back to usual. Victoria had made her point, and both Martin and I were back in the summerhouse entertaining the victorious football team.
Clare and I had “couple nights” every Tuesday and Sunday. We went out with Victoria and Martin on most Thursdays – often alternating between the pub quiz and the comedy night, with occasional trips to the sex club. My relationship was a strong as ever. I had an untroubled, unsophisticated, and uncomplicated existence.
Martin and I met up regularly with Scott and his partner too. Iain was a skinny, dark-haired 24-year-old who had a colourful past. His cheeky, fun persona was infectious, but masked a slurry of insecurities. He opened up about his life after a few drinks.
The bottom had previously worked as a cam-model, an extra in scenes at a BDSM porn studio and the revelation of his kinkiness, exhibitionism and homosexuality had caused a rift within his family. His deeply religious employer gave the man his P45, and the sacking by the all-girls school caused him to thump the head-teacher. In court, Iain received a two-month spell in prison, which he called “a heavenly nightmare!”
I warmed to Iain, just as I had warmed to Scott. I enjoyed his company, and he had no hesitation in walking across the fields with his boyfriend to join us in the vast room of the summerhouse for a few beers in the weekday evenings. As Martin and I were naked, he would be too, and he proudly displayed his glabrous body and undersized cock with his rampant exhibitionist streak. It was so natural to him.
Clare savoured he powerful dominant hotwife role. On several occasions, she tied me to a chair in her bedroom to witness her date bring her to orgasm and deposit his seed deep within my fiancée. Other times, we engaged in ‘69’ as her lover roughly speared his meaty cock into my partner.
Some evenings, my fiancée and Martin’s wife had lesbian play, and the two powerful women brought each other to orgasm in front of their restrained partners. Frustrating and torturous, but incredibly erotic.
I was used to her having multiple lovers, and accepting it, but she had found her happy place as Victoria’s wing-woman once more. She taunted and flaunted her additional sexuality in front me, and made me part of her games. She wasn’t just having additional lovers, she was making my humiliation part of her sex life.
Apart from our designated couple nights, when there was no BDSM and no cuckoldry. We were a normal couple then. We cuddled up together to watch films, eat popcorn, play games and go on dates. Even when one of her playmates recognised us in a bar and came over to us, she left him in no uncertain terms that his presence was neither required nor wanted on that evening. She set very strict red lines and maintaining our relationship was the reddest of those boundaries.
For both of us.
Even when alpha male footballers were lining up to be balls-deep in my backside, as Clare was riding wave after wave of undulating orgasmic bliss at the end of the Coach’s cock, it was all about Clare, me and our sexuality.
We had never been more compatible.
She gave me everything I wanted.
