The Summerhouse: Chapter 02 (Chantelle)

We travelled North to Clare’s best friend’s home in my car. Victoria had insisted we stay at her abode, and few people resisted when the domineering “Lady of the House” demanded it. She had always possessed an inarguable confidence that steamrollered over objections with the merest tone of her voice and a glance from her eyes.

There would be no way Clare, myself, and Clare’s partner would check into a hotel near the venue. She could not countenance the idea that her best friend would stay a faceless hotel chain when a beautiful room in her salubrious house, with a double bed, was available for Clare to use. There would be no discussion. It was not imposing on her, or her husband’s party. It had been earmarked for us, and we would be using it.

Victoria’s husband was a wealthy, successful businessman. His software firm had cornered a minor, but very lucrative niche industry, and he had recently sold his majority stake in his company to a large multinational. Small change for them, but a nine-figure windfall to Mr and Mrs Braithwaite.

He took her name when they wedded. Martin Anthony Kielty became Martin Braithwaite after their ceremony; it was a decision which Clare told me had caused consternation in his conservative family, but Martin did what Victoria desired.

Their home was a detached manor house in the leafy Cheshire countryside. Located just outside an affluent village, their long drive and secluded gardens were perfect for their lifestyle. Victoria opened the front door, dressed in a black-and-white striped Latex bustier, with long black rubber gloves, black fishnets and a white thong. In her hand she held a whip.

Simon’s eyes popped as the dominant wife beckoned them into her house. “Clare,” Victoria beamed, and threw her arms around my fiancée. “Come in, Jonathan,” she said to me. “Long time, no see! Clare’s room is first floor, turn right, second door on the left. Clare, come make my husband cry. It’s his birthday, he needs special treatment.”

Clare chuckled. “Can I use the loo? I really need to pee. It’s been such a long journey.” Victoria shook her head.

“Excellent. Come feed it to Martin,” she laughed, and led my fiancée towards their playroom. “Forty today, make him suffer! And Jon,” she called to me. “Make sure Simon is showered and settled in the spare room. And happy. Clare said you’ve been batting for both teams. I always knew you had it in you!”

The lithe, long-haired woman raised her eyebrows as I blushed. “Well,” I stammered. Clare’s bull, with his bald head, contoured beard, and bulging muscles, grinned. We both knew what she meant. Simon picked up the largest of the suitcases with more ease than I managed with the smaller one.

The spare room that Clare used had one double bed, a small single bed, a modest en-suite and beautiful view of the village and the valley. When my fiancée visited or travelled to work from the Manchester office, she stayed with her best friend. These trips had become more frequent over the two-and-a-half years at her national firm, and Victoria referred to the Scarlet Room as “Clare’s Room.”

Explicit photographs lined the wall – lesbian, gay and heterosexual. Erotic drawings were printed onto the duvet and a whole two drawers in the chest were given with rubber sheets, whips, chains, ropes and a handful of sex toys. Condoms and lubes were in a bowl on the bedside table. The television was hooked up to a pornography-laden media server. This was a boudoir, not a bedroom. This was a space for fucking, not sleeping.

For the second time in as many minutes, Simon’s eyes widened. He said nothing as he took in the overwhelming room and pointed at a framed photograph on the wall. “Yes, that’s Clare,” I told him. “And that one is Victoria. She was very fond of him. He went on to play for England.”

Simon squinted at the naked sportsman on the end of Victoria’s giant black strap-on dildo. “Christ! I never knew he had it in him.”

“He had a lot in him that night!” I joked. “Clare described it in immaculate detail. She still remembers the party with the impressionable twenty-year-old footballer, before his marriage to the dainty bubblegum music chart-topper, of course.”

“Sure,” Simon muttered.

It was possible that the innocent persona of his spouse is an act, and behind the whiter-than-white reputation, that came with children’s television, and then in their manufactured high-energy pop band, is a dark, twisted sex drive. But I doubted it. I didn’t believe the music industry’s pure princess could satisfy him like Victoria did.

We made small talk, and he stepped into the shower, to wash away the sweat and grime from our car journey. I heard the odd scream from another room over the pattering of the water, but my attention was stolen by Simon, dressed in just a towel.

He wasn’t bisexual or particularly dominant. Our encounters previously had been sporadic, and he rarely engaged in any sex in my presence. The only couple of times I had touched him was the context of massage, and while he was in the shower, I had assembled the portable massage table, stored in the corner of the room. “This place has everything,” he mumbled. “Yeah, OK,” he muttered, and placed his towel on the padded table, before lying on it.

The spiced oil was wonderfully scented; Simon grunted as my slippery hands glided over his freshly showered body, gripping and kneading his muscles on his thighs, arms and shoulders.

Clare ensured that I got plenty of practice. My fiancée loved my oiled fingers touching her, and she adored the idea of my lubricated fingers massaging anyone she brought home. Often before sex, sometimes afterwards.

Eric, the married convenience store owner, on the same road as our rented flat, was never permitted by his wife to enjoy the silky, warm cunt of my fiancée, but he did get satisfaction from my soft hands as Clare looked on. The delicate lingam massage always covered my greased hands in his cum. He never told his spouse and did not consider my massages to be cheating.

Simon had stronger red lines. Pressing on his tired muscles and reinvigorating his aching limbs was as far as he wanted me to go. I could not touch his large member, or stray beyond a relaxing massage.

The moment Clare returned to the room, he looked lustfully at her, and pushed me to one side. Her clothes became a pile of discarded garments on the carpet in moments, as the firefighter forced his lips to Clare’s and touched her slippery cunt. Whatever Victoria and her submissive husband had done to my fiancée, it had left her excited, horny and well lubricated.

I watched in silence as Simon threw my partner onto the double bed, grabbed her calves and smoothly slipped his stiff prick deep into my love.

No words. No verbal communication. Just eye contact and grunts conveying his sexual expectation and her longing. They said nothing to me. They didn’t look at me. I was insignificant. She needed a good fucking, and she rarely sought that from me.

That was Simon’s role. It was almost invariably someone else’s job to do. As I’d done many times, I watched helplessly as another man furrowed their stiff cock into my girl. Seeing her delight and happiness as they drove her to repeated orgasms while I was left watching and waiting.

My cock stiffened as it always did. My mind swirled with a burning humiliation and deep satisfaction. Every grunt, groan and squeal from my fiancée caused me to smile more. Each squeak of the bed springs, or slap of flesh, was a further reminder of their sinful, carnal performance in front of my gaze. The lightly spiced aroma of the massage oil hung gently in the air as they fucked.

Simon did not degrade me while he cuckolded me. Clare had other lovers that did that. He showed his alpha virility with the act of fornication. He didn’t want me to lick his balls, or kiss his buttcheeks like Drew. He did not permit me to lavish love on my fiancée’s clit as he speared his prick into her unguarded cunt, like Adam or Peter. He wouldn’t demand that my fingers guided his magnificent member into my woman, or clean his cum from his prick when he was done, like Kyle or Daffyd. Or to fluff him like Reuben.

Simon merely made me watch. From the other side of the room. And ignored me. I had no physical place in their fun, I offered nothing. I was useless and unneeded in the act of sexually satisfying my fiancée, until he had finished.

It was a huge humiliation. The burning embarrassment caused me to squirm relentlessly with every pound of his prick into my gorgeous partner. I fidgeted as his thick cock filled her, and he squirted his cum inside her unprotected cunt.

Clare made eye contact with me. She smiled and pulled her lover to kiss her. She knew how that made me feel.

My cock flinched in earnest. She passionately wrapped her arms around his spent body as she writhed underneath him. Partly for her, mostly for me. My fiancée knew what that did to my horniness.

And then she asked for me to go down on her. To sap the leaking cunt and clean it of his cum. To swallow the semen of another, directly from my lady, as Simon watched on. My erect cock, untouched and not required. I could not move quick enough, as my face dived between Clare’s legs and my tongue lapped at the milky seed, given by another.

An hour later, the five of us shared a taxi to the large spacious venue, situated on the edge of a suburban town. A former manor house had been acquired by the sex club, which the Braithwaites were members of, as a bequest from an unmarried, horny pensioner in his sizeable will. The driver gave us knowing looks as he deposited the three men and two women were at the gate. He knew; the girls made it obvious to him.

There were changing facilities at the venue. Victoria never needed them. She was proud of her sexuality and loved to flaunt her availability to everyone. She had used the small taxi firm before, and she recognised the driver. Perhaps she had treated him on a previous day; it was quite probable.

Martin paid the driver and left a generous tip with the smirking gentleman. Victoria wrapped her arm around Clare’s waist and beckoned the hunky firefighter to her side. She never cast a second glance at Martin or myself, as they walked up the small drive, hidden by a screen of bushes.

Clare was wearing a sheer black chemise that covered nothing and displayed everything. She sat in the front seat of the taxi and her wandering hands rested on the driver’s lap. Knee high black boots completed her outfit, that thudded as she strode up the narrow path. She looked like an extra from Wolf of Wall Street.

Victoria wore just a flimsy, dark translucent jacket around her body that she had tied in the middle of her breasts. It billowed in the summer breeze as she walked. Her long legs were accentuated by sheer stockings and high-heels.

The women resembled porn stars. Martin and I were shirtless with just red tartan kilts and red collars donning our bodies. The neckwear was the reason we would be surrounded by sex and get offered nothing. The scarlet choker indicated that we were “bottoms.” Victoria had snapped her husband’s manhood inside a metal cage, with the key attached to her anklet, but it was needless. The red leather neckwear was more powerful than any chastity device.

The fine weather and warm evening had caused the party to spread out across the secluded grounds. The cool breeze carried aromatic scents of flowers and the chirping from the birds, and was overlaid with the passionate sounds of fucking from the courtyard.

Two lithe women sordidly entertained five men on the carpet of lush grass. Nymphs, welcoming the party-goers to the hedonistic entertainment.

The estate was an infamous venue. They had expanded to fill every niche on a rolling monthly basis. Bisexual party – once a month. Female domination pony play – once a month. Gay sportswear enthusiasts – once a month. And so on. It catered for every taste and kink with wild, debauched orgies of indulgence and gratification.

That night was the no-holes barred, wife-swapping, hotwife and cuckold orgy. An entire evening of teasing husbands, changing partners and disgusting behaviour.

Martin told me that the men would outnumber the women by four or five to one. Chaste cuckolds did not count towards the male total. The red collar, padlocked around my neck, ensured that no woman would seek my dick for a good time. No person would touch my cock, no matter how much I wanted it. If I was caught playing with myself, then it was an hour on the “rape bench” and zero sympathy.

I lost sight of my partner as she skipped through the large wooden front doors and into the imposing hallway. She had disappeared into the crowd of half-naked adults, cavorting, cajoling and laughing.

A nude waitress, wearing just a shimmering turquoise blue collar with matching colour blindfold and buttplug, held a tray of full champagne flutes. A naked couple in matching Latex masks were screwing on a leather chaise-long in the doorway, while another man was openly fondling the masked lady’s bare tits.

It was an unconstrained sea of sex. The scenes were reminiscent of a renaissance painting as unrestrained carnal enjoyment spilled from every room. I followed Martin through the expansive reception room to the kitchen, and then past a “media room.” Gangbang pornography blared into the darkened theatre.

Martin pushed open a side door to a tiled bathroom. “Victoria told me to get us both plugged and douched,” he said as he strode into a small chamber that held an impressive amount of sex toys on a table next to the toilet.

“Why? Who’s going to fuck us?”

“It is best not to question Victoria,” he replied, and selected two large plugs. He smiled as he passed me one, which I swapped for something smaller. “Not a size queen, then?”

“No!” I picked up a disposable douching set, and filled the basin. I jettisoned a couple of full bulbs of warm water into my butt and repeated until I could expel the liquid from my orifice so that is was clear.

Martin unfurled a dark condom over the thick metal plug and passed me a bottle of lube that I generously poured over the toy and down my fingers.

I stared, transfixed, as another man parted his buttcheeks and raised the plug into him. He was in good condition, with a well-defined chest and sparkling blue eyes. It was wonderful, intimate sight to see Martin gasp and grunt as his butt stretched to accommodate the toy.

The smaller, metal plug felt just as pleasant entering me. I loved the pressure on my ring as it dilated to allow the plug to pass into my willing body and rubbed against my insides.

The party was as wild and hedonistic as I expected it to be. Martin was recognised by several men, and a few women. One spanked him with glee, after he stared at her bouncing tits as she was boisterously fucked.

Another took our kilts as “mementos” after I ate out their cunt and Martin rimmed her peachy butt. I saw Clare screwed against the wall as Simon slammed his chunky cock into my fiancée, and later when she lapped at the iced cunt of a random woman.

“You massage?” The pregnant woman looked at me and I nodded, mute. My attention had been stolen by Clare, but the expectant woman radiated fun. Her naked body, adorned with a few small tattoos, glistened in the bright lights of the billiard room. “C’mon cuck!”

She pulled at my hand, dragging me into an empty adjacent room with just a couple of single beds. On a bedside table was an orange massage lotion, and she sat down on the mattress, groaning as the bed creaked underneath her. “You want an erotic massage?” It was all I could say. My cock rose, and she smiled when she saw the movement of my prick.

“Yes. And then maybe more.” The cheeky brunette smirked as she rested her head on the single pillow. “Warm up the lotion in your fingers first. I don’t want a shock.”

My greased hands caused her to sigh. I slowly and tentatively drew my fingers over her engorged breasts and fondled her slippery nipple. I slid my lubricated fingers across her distended belly and brushed the top of her shaven mons.

She groaned as my palm rippled her leg muscles and the delicious beauty snorted as my hand swept over a faded red tattoo on the inside of her thigh.

“Slut,” I read out instinctively, and she giggled.

“I had that done as a dare with my husband,” she replied, not looking up or opening her eyes as I continued to massage her. Cum leaked from her cunt into a puddle on the black rubber sheet, and she sighed as my fingers glided over her oozing pussy. “He said if I got knocked up before the wedding, he could choose a tattoo and I’d have to have it. And I did. Two weeks before we got hitched, some guy in Ibiza put a baby in me. Condom broke, on my hen weekend. And hubby wanted that tat.”

“Oh …”

“Yeah, and for number two, I got that ankle chain inked.” My eyes fell upon her right ankle where the image of a metal chain with the hotwife symbol adorned her skin.

“Is he … um … here?”

She laughed. “Who do you think is home babysitting?” The young mother barely looked older than twenty-five. Her soft flesh was supple to the touch, and she smiled as my hands glided up her thighs.

“Is there one for your current condition?” I asked, ensure how to phrase my question.

She patted her pregnant belly. “I will have to have one. This isn’t hubby’s, so I have to get more ink. He gets to choose what and where. That’s the rules.” I nodded at her. “Now suck my toes, cuck,” she ordered and opened her eyes to look at me with a fiery glare.

I knelt on the floor. Clare had never been fond of feet play, but I wrapped my mouth around her big toe and slowly sucked on it, as it was presented to me.

I swallowed the grit on the underside of her feet and then ran my tongue over her toe, sucking on it gently. I felt self-conscious. More aware of my own position that any blowjob I had ever given.

I moved along each toe and sucked every single digit in turn as she rolled her finger over her clit. She smiled as I worked on her toes. Our eyes met over her smooth thighs and pregnant bump.

“You cucks are pathetic,” she told me with a wide grin. “But keep on.” Her words were more arousing to me than sucking her bare feet. The abusive humiliation was a tonic to my flagging penis that I would not be able to use.

“Hey Carlos,” she called out as a man walked past the massage table. She wriggled her toes as a thick set top stood behind me. “I could do with a fuck, and cucky here doesn’t have the ability to deliver.”

I looked around to see the bulky, overweight, naked man with a smirk. He was hairy, bearded, middle-aged and held a glass of lightly coloured beer. There was dirt under his fingernails and masculine grubbiness to him. He could have been a mechanic or a builder and had a physicality and potency that I didn’t have. “Sure, sweet cheeks. Get your cuck to get me hard.”

I went to say that I wasn’t “her” cuck, when the flaccid cock bobbed inches from my face and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity. It glistened in the spotlights and oozed deliciousness. I engulfed the small prick in my mouth and brought it to its full length. He grunted as I tasted the sapid sweetness of a recent orgasm.

Of a recent bareback fuck.

My nose nestled in his plentiful pubic hair as he bucked his hips to push his uncut cock further into my throat. I didn’t care. I wanted it. I wanted to feel the submission once more. I needed to be used and discarded. I knew my place.

He held the back of my head as he thrusted his cock into my willing mouth. The pregnant woman stepped down from the massage table and pulled on my shoulders. “I want a fuck. But you can play with my clit,” she demanded, and as my back hit the cold stone floor, her well-sucked toes gripped my ears.

Her cunt was less than an inch from my eyes. Carlos’s balls dragged along my forehead. Masculine, sweaty orbs of cum sliding across my face as he positioned the pregnant slut into a fucking position.

Her belly rested on mine; her fingers tapped on the inside of my thigh, as my lips swept along her slit. I flicked her clit and rolled her sensitive button around my tongue, as Carlos speared her cunt. He opened her up and ploughed his prick into the stranger bareback.

My hands massaged her tits; my tongue sucked on her slippery clit and touched his sweaty balls and cock. She blew on my erect cock and groaned as I sucked on her pearl, while Carlos pistonned his short, thick prick into her unguarded hole.

She writhed under our touch. She grunted and sighed, and her thighs gripped the side of my head with fevered abandon. She rolled her hips to the same rhythm as her lover and pushed her body into mine.

I stared at the sagging balls smashing against her crotch. Waiting. Hoping. Desperate for that taste of his cum. Wanting to suck his seed from the pregnant woman’s cunt. A degrading task that I was desperate to do. Every slap of flesh took them closer to that moment. Every grunt, groan, squeal, cry and thrust was nearer to the time when his prick would shoot his seed into her pussy and it would leak onto my face.

Onto my lips.

Carlos smashed his cock deep into the woman and held it as his thighs shook and his crotch pulsated. I heard her gasp. She groaned. She felt the waves of his cum enter her body and as he withdrew it, several globules of his seed dripped onto me.

I didn’t ask for permission, but I buried my face in her well-fucked cunt and licked. I sucked, and I rolled my tongue around her pussy as she squealed. She begged and moaned until Carlos stuck his cum-covered prick in her mouth to silence the vocal proclamations from the horny harlot.

She made muffled yells as I tasted the delicious creamy goo. The musky, familiar taste of masculinity imbibed with her sweet notes was a heavenly cocktail. A humiliating, degrading, filthy mixture that slipped across my tongue like a fine wine.

She groaned as I swept over her clit, and quivered as she orgasmed, expelling the last remnants of Carlos’s seed when she passionately bucked her hips.

She smiled at me as she stood up and then kissed Carlos on the lips as I got to my feet. “You better clean yourself, cuck!” She warned, and I thanked her before washing my face and hair in a bathroom.

The sex party was huge. I had lost Martin and could not see Simon, Clare or Victoria. The lack of protection between Carlos and the pregnant woman worried me, and I wanted to find my fiancée.

Martin was on his knees, servicing an elder, Latex-covered woman. His mouth glued to her cunt as she writhed on the gilded throne. Victoria was underneath Simon on the lawn. Her legs were vertical as he ploughed into her unguarded cunt with wild abandon.

I finally found Clare in the dungeon, holding a long cane as she took it in turns with another dominant to lacerate a tied underling’s backside. The red collared gentleman yelled with every strike on his striped bottom, begging for mercy from the two torturers.

I stood at the back of the dark space and watched. Stopping to admire the majesty of my fiancée as she inflicted exquisite agony on the restrained man. “Enough?” Clare asked.

Her sadistic partner shook her head and launched into a vicious salvo of strikes against the backs of the screaming man’s thighs. “Now that’s enough. Who said you could watch me?”

“No-one, Mistress,” he blubbed.

“Quite, and what did you do?”

“I watched you get fucked, Mistress.”

“And then what?”

“I touched my winky.” I sniggered at his description and his partner smashed the implement once more into his bare flesh.

“Pathetic! What do you say to Clare who helped me punish you?”

“Thank you, Miss Clare.”

Clare smiled and passed the cane to her new friend, and backed away. She caught me watching from the back of the dungeon. “Do you know what we do to ogling cucks?”

“I was looking for you,” I told her and then met her eyes. “Miss Clare.”

“Ooh, Miss Clare. I like that. Perhaps I’ll keep that.” A bell rang out as we reached the top of the stairs and Clare giggled. “Oh wow. They’re doing it. Victoria said they would! C’mon, you’ll be needed!”

“What?”

“Martin’s birthday. This will be fun.”

“What do you mean, ‘I’ll be needed!’?”

“Stop worrying,” Clare hissed and patted my bare bottom. “Just c’mon!”

We followed the masses of the bodies filing into the large hall which was crammed with naked and semi-naked adults. Martin was nude, helpless, and fastened to a St Andrews Cross in the centre of the large hall. He whimpered loudly as Victoria held a whip menacingly alongside another, elder, lady.

“One of our elite members has turned forty today,” she shouted. “And it is our tradition, that he shall be whipped.”

Victoria smiled. “But we have a little game for him to play. He can take forty strikes with the whip, forty strikes on the cane, forty strikes with the tawse, forty hits with paddle and finally forty strikes to his balls. Or he can keep being struck with those implements until a cucky friend has sucked off Evelyn. So should he take the hits, or should he gamble?”

“Gamble!” Clare yelled beside me. “Gamble!” Others around us echoed this, and Victoria traced her whip over his abused flesh. The welts from earlier in the day were clearly visible.

“Gamble?” Victoria asked and turned on her heels to speak directly to her restrained husband. “Hey Martin? Gamble or not?”

“OK,” he cried. “I’ll gamble.” A cheer went up.

“Pick your cuck partner,” Victoria told him. “And just so you know, we will tie you both to the rape bench afterwards until I am ready to go home.”

Clare squeezed my hand. “He might call for you.”

“I haven’t blown that many men,” I whispered back.

“You’ve done a few,” Clare replied. “And I know you like it.”

“So many more have men will have more experience than me.”
Martin sighed. “Jonathan, is he here?” Clare squealed in excitement and pushed me forward. My cheeks burnt as I made small steps through the crowd to the centre of the large crowd.

Victoria beamed and ran her whip up my body, causing me to shiver. “You know what you have to do?”

“Um …” I hesitated.

“When a dick, of my choosing, comes in your slutty mouth, I’ll stop whipping your friend. And then we’ll tie you to the rape bench in the stables for anyone to use until we leave. Agree to that?”

I squeaked as I replied. “Yes.”

“Horny already!” Victoria joked. “OK, Jonathan. This is the guy you need to suck. His real name is Evelyn, but he prefers Chantelle. And he is one very lucky cuck!” The lithe, hairless man stood in front of me, with black fishnet stockings, a lacy black suspender belt and a padded bra that was stuffed with big oval pads. He was younger than me, with long black hair and deep blue eyes. And a red collar.

I knelt in front of him, oblivious to the surrounding chattering. I made eye contact with the sissy cuckold, and then, as the first strike hit Martin’s skin, my lips surrounded his circumcised cock.

My hands gripped his hosiery-encased buttocks as his prick glided into my mouth. It quickly grew. Long swirls against his sensitive glans that had been teased all evening, and I drained the sapid pre-cum down my throat.

Martin screamed in pain. Intense strikes on his abused backside as my tongue worked the crossdresser’s prick. Victoria played to her audience with her taunting and gloating comments. Martin’s wife gleefully abused and degraded him in public.

My hands parted the buttocks of the submissive cuckold and I massaged my finger against his butthole. I pulled his body closer, pushing his cock deeper into my mouth as my tongue flicked his cock head. I bobbed on his skinny dick that tickled the back of my throat.

I couldn’t ignore the humiliation. I couldn’t avoid the laughter or the enjoyment the crowd of perverts were gaining from the submissive act. I was fellating the crossdressing sissy. I was seeking to extract the cum from the most beta of beta males. My dick bobbed as I desperately and frantically worked the cock of the fishnet-clad man in front of me.

Victoria dropped the whip and picked up the cane. “Your friend isn’t doing too well,” she yelled as the long, thin implement whistled through the air and landed on his skin. Martin screamed. Loud, piercing yells of excruciating pain that echoed in the hall. “I will make your backside sore until your next birthday,” Victoria promised him.

I increased the pace on the epicene submissive. I rammed my mouth faster and faster on his cock, desperate to taste his creamy cum in my mouth. Both Martin and I needed it. I gagged on his hairless tool as I stroked his anus, pressing against the whorl of his backside as I pulled his hips towards me.

“Jonathan,” Martin squealed as Victoria moved onto the paddle. “Hurry up!”

I couldn’t reply. I couldn’t respond. I was sucking the transvestite as fast as I could, skewering his prick deep into my mouth as Victoria abused her husband. Repeated strikes smashed against his flesh with increasingly loud yells and whimpers. An intense display, with screams that rattled around my conscious.

I needed to block him out. I had to concentrate on the long, thin dick between my lips. I needed to kiss, caress, worship and adore the cock sliding out of my mouth and stimulate it.

I sucked the tip of his prick and rolled my tongue around his corona until he whimpered. He squealed, and he bucked his hips. His prick trembled and the smallest squirt of cum landed on my lips.

“He’s come,” I yelled, just as Victoria flicked her cane into her husband’s testicles for the first time. The howl was deafening. He hollered and screamed as the sharp pain smashed into his sensitive orbs.

Victoria scowled and dropped her implement. “Tie ‘em up on the bench,” she ordered and turned to the room. “And boys and girls, please use my husband. It’s his special day.” I panted with deep breaths as the taste of Chantelle’s burst of semen slipped down my throat. Victoria knelt down beside me. “C’mon, Jon. You don’t escape the birthday celebrations,” she whispered in my ear.

“But it’s Martin’s day, not mine.”

“And we are sharing it with you and Clare. Don’t worry, it’s my husband who will get most of the fucking.” She guided me behind her partner, out of the manor house and into the floodlit gardens, to a small stable block to the rear of the property. In the dimly lit cold building were two jet black steel bondage benches.

The spartan room smelt musky. There was straw on the floor that cut into my bare feet as Victoria took me to the furthest bench. The black metal frame had lockable wrist restraints, ankle restraints and a neck restraint, which Victoria guided me into. My arse was presented to anyone who entered the room; I was ready to be “raped” doggy-style with only a tiny amount of padding under my chest and knees.

I looked across at Martin, restrained like me. Victoria’s heels echoed on the stone floor as she strode to the rear of the room, and she picked up a black rubber hood, which she put over her husband’s constrained head. When she fastened the straps on the black leather garment, under his chain and at the base of his neck, I noticed a funnel on a nine inch hose protruding from his mouth.

“Hey, hun,” Clare whispered in my ear. “We have one for you too. Unless you want to suck cocks instead.” She giggled and ran her hands through my hair affectionately.

The buttplug was gently removed from my butthole and I heard footsteps leave the room. They left us, alone. Waiting. “You OK?” I asked Martin, but the full head hood and muzzled mouth meant he gave just a grunt in return.

The first three visitors went to the birthday boy. A tall, black man urinated in his funnel, causing the bound cuckold to jerk as the liquid flowed into his mouth and then I heard the rough sounds of slapping flesh. Martin’s groans were explicit. The deep grunts of the top were obvious.

One of the naked hosts, holding a blue blindfold, visited next. The young lady stepped on a stool, pushed the funnel underneath her tantalising cunt and let a stream of piss flow into Martin’s throat. He gurgled as the pee slipped past his lips and the delicate wisp left the stables with a chuckle.

The following visitor was an elder, mature woman, donning a large black strap-on. In real life, she could have been a part-time librarian, or a retired primary school teacher, but she came to plunder the backside of the multi-millionaire. She made brief eye contact with me and then shifted from my vision as she roughly fucked our host until he squealed and cried. His body jerked forward with every powerful thrust into his vulnerable arse.

I wanted something. Watching Martin receive all the attention had left my cock straining underneath the bondage bench, and my butt tingled with anticipation. Horniness flowed through me. Desperation.

The buttplug had stretched my hole, and I needed to have it re-plugged. Taken. Plundered.

Two giggling female voices perked my hopes. The gentle parting of my buttocks raised them further, as a smooth, slippery dildo slipped between by cheeks. My mind relaxed, and I swam through the desperate feelings of submission. Her lubricated cock stretched me.

Wondrous, delightful pressure around my ring. Across my body. A soft warm glow.

But as she finished, still giggling, it felt empty and shallow. She wasn’t a dominatrix. It wasn’t intimate.

The thick prick that followed her, driven into my butt was. The unknown man was a delight, pulling on my waist as he roughly rammed his meat into my unguarded hole.

Intense, passionate, flexible and erotic. He slammed his flesh against mine, radiating a power that left me gasping and squealing. I couldn’t think about anything other than the dominant top plundering my body. My crotch sizzled towards an explosion, my body tensing and relaxing as he gave me the pleasure I needed.

I saw the crest of my arousal in the distance. I felt the impending peak gathering pace as the alpha male slammed his dick harder and harder into my hole.

And then it stopped.

I squeezed my muscles, as his prick pulsed, desperate to wring a last drop of sensation. But it was no good.

A guy twenty minutes later did the same, taking me so close to my anal orgasm, before shooting into his condom. Martin though, got five times more visitors than me. I lost count of the times his hole was ploughed, or the times he was forced to drink from the funnel. He pissed twice into a bucket underneath the bench and came at least once.

Victoria untied us just before 11pm, and we arrived back at the Braithwaite’s mansion after midnight. Martin and I were teased in the taxi journey back, with Simon looking exhausted.

“Before, you go to bed,” I asked Clare. “I wouldn’t mind fifteen minutes alone with you.”

“Really,” Clare mumbled.

“You said Victoria and Martin have a dungeon with restraints. Can I have a look in there? With you?”

“It’s late, Jon,” Clare soothed. “And I am sure Martin and Victoria want to rest.”

“No, I don’t mind,” Martin replied, smiling at me. He must have read my mind, as the moment I saw the vast array of bondage equipment in the large dungeon, that Clare had described to me on the car journey north, I made a bee-line for the bench. It was similar to what I had been strapped into for half the evening.

“Haven’t you had enough of that?” Victoria giggled and I shook my head. I pulled Clare over it, and our eyes met. “Err … I don’t think cucks should be doing that to their ladies.”

“She can punish me later,” I snapped. “I need to fuck my fiancée. She’s teased me all fucking night.” Clare sniggered as I fastened the cuffs around her ankles and wrists.

“Someone’s very horny,” Clare chuckled. “It’s OK. Just this once, Victoria.”

Her mesh dress had already ridden upwards and my erect cock slipped inside her sopping wet cunt. Victoria stood beside me. “Is that good?”

“Fantastic,” I muttered.

“About twenty men have fucked your girl today. She’s very slutty. Very, very slutty. And while the waiter ploughed your arse, she was doing a spit roast.” I grunted as my prick pistonned into her. Victoria cackled. “And she ate out six women. She’s a real Grade-A slut. So do you think a little cuck is going to make her satisfied? This is a pity fuck.”

I didn’t care. My hands gripped her waist as I plundered my fiancée relentlessly. Every touch was a sweet caress from her cunt on my cock. Every word from Victoria, a tonic to my submission.

My orgasm neared. I jack-hammered into Clare’s maidenhood and without warning, had the most intense, all-encompassing climax I had ever had with Clare.

Victoria ran her hands over my shoulder. “Now you’ve reclaimed your woman, perhaps you should clean her up and then take her back to Simon.”

“Can I reclaim you?” Martin asked and his young wife snorted derisively.

She looked at her watch. “Sex? With you? It’s not your birthday any more. Try again in 364 days.”

“But …”

She glared at him. “Do you want to sleep in the bedroom or the garden?” She laughed at his expression and patted him on the butt. “OK, you can have a pity fuck too. Once, you’ve had a shower. Just this once.”