The week after Valentine’s Day, the Summerhouse received an unexpected and unwelcome visitor once lunchtime. Mr Simpson was a short, balding man with a suit from the 1980s and an outlook on life from the 1880s. His fingers rapped on the front door of Martin’s wooden den of depravity with a firm, officious knock.
Martin and I were both naked, and my host had little choice but to invite the clipboard-wielding gentleman into our abode. “Mr Duncan Simpson, Cheshire East Council environmental health inspector. We’ve had reports, and some evidence submitted of loud parties from your neighbour, and I need to discuss the allegations and agree a noise management plan.”
“A fucking what?” Martin asked. He stood akimbo with his caged cock twitching in front of the startled man reading from his clipboard. The sight of a chastity cage was too much to see. “This is my house.”
“Mr …”
“Braithwaite,” Martin replied.
“Our department has the property owner listed as Mr Kielty.”
“That’s my maiden name,” Martin snapped. “I bought the house as Martin Kielty, and then I got married to Miss Braithwaite. So I am now Mr Braithwaite.”
“Mr Braithwaite, please go put some clothes on and we can discuss this. We want to do this reasonably. You don’t want me to have to file a report.”
“A report?” Martin cackled. “Why would you need to do that?”
“If you just get dressed …”
“I can’t,” Martin replied. “I am not allowed to wear clothes while at home. It’s a condition of the marriage.”
Mr Simpson looked at me. “And neither is he. His fiancée gets very cross if he even thinks about socks.”
The council official sighed. Martin gestured towards one of the leather armchairs. “Take a seat, Duncan.” He followed the gaze of our guest onto the small table containing Martin’s Valentine’s Day present from Victoria. “Tea? Coffee? Something stronger, maybe?”
Duncan shook his head and looked down at his papers, blushing profusely. “I’m fine.”
“I’ll have a coffee,” Martin ordered of me. “And Jon, did you fill up on the condoms and the lube for Saturday? I know we are running short, and if we need to order some more, as they take a couple of days to come.”
“I’ll go order them,” I said, catching Martin’s grin. “Will a thousand be enough?”
“Make it two.” He smiled at the uncomfortable guest and raised his eyebrows. “One can never have too many condoms and too much lube. Eh, Duncan?”
The council official blushed. “I’ll take you word for it.”
“Oh yes,” Martin enthused. “If you want a damn good seeing to, then that condom needs to handle some rough fucking. And that’s a torrent of lube and a well-made sturdy johnny.”
“Mr Braithwaite, I think you are being deliberately vulgar. Now, when I came here, I was told that you are the owner of this house from the gardener and it is you that is listed on this complaint which alleges that you contravene Subsection 14A of the Noise Regulations 2012 and Paragraphs 12 to 16 of the Environmental Protection Act 2005.”
“What about subsection 69?”
“This is serious, Mr Braithwaite.”
“Oh, really? So what has the prudish cunt complained about now?”
“Did you, or did you not have a party on the last Friday of January at your house?”
“Um … yeah, maybe.”
“And the following Saturday afternoon, did you have a ‘plethora of men to conduct sordid acts in the garden’?”
“I wouldn’t call six a plethora,” Martin replied. “Merely, a small gathering. And there were five of us servicing the men. The girls got a bit excited. We were all tired after the party the night before. There is only so much fucking your holes can take. So there was spanking, I remember that. Some of us love a thrashing. Do you enjoy a good smack, Mr Simpson?” Martin grinned. “Or do you like to dish it out? I reckon you might be an uptight git at work, but you’re a naughty schoolboy in the dungeon.”
“Mr Braithwaite, that’s enough!”
“Does Teacher discipline you? Does she give you six of the best?” Martin joked.
“Mr Braithwaite! That’s enough!” Duncan barked and wiped his brow with his suit sleeve. “Your neighbour has alleged that the noise coming from your property exceeded the legal limit, has photographs and videos shot from that weekend from his estate that support his assertion that there was a weekend of wild, sordid partying at this address. And you seem to admit it.”
“Is that legal?” The millionaire asked as I passed Martin his coffee and slipped upstairs to the bedroom to order supplies from his favourite condom supplier. “Isn’t videoing people fucking other people on private property against the law? Voyeurism, surely.”
“It’s not for me to comment. That is a civil matter. But according to his statement, there was loud jeering and screaming at midnight on Friday night followed by several motor vehicles.” I could hear the chatter from the room below as Martin spoke to the council officer.
He came into the bedroom a little later holding an “Official Warning” and a signed “Environmental Noise Action Plan.”
“It basically says that we promise to limit the noise from our property between eleven in the evening and seven in the morning, which we do, apart from special occasions. But I want to smack that nasty piece of shit.”
“What does …”
“… Victoria say? I haven’t asked her. I will get back at that twat. You’ll help me, right? He’s not a saint himself.”
“Sure,” I muttered, and Martin threw the paper onto his bed.
“I’m going to find my wife, first. I need a thorough thrashing after dealing with that officious prick!”
My host returned three hours later and showed me the dozens of scarlet lacerations across his back, buttocks and thighs. His cock was encased in a spiked chastity cage and there was a vibrating butt plug rammed in his backside. Martin’s voice was calmer, his demeanour less aggressive. His wife had soothed the masochist and released his tensions.
Like a day at the spa, the viciousness of his domme’s anger had relaxed Martin. She had unleashed hell on his body and he had enjoyed it. He needed it.
For the first time in weeks, my fiancée wanted to include me in my cuckolding. When we embarked on our journey as a couple, most of the sessions were threesomes where I shared my partner, or were her “playing away.” As our relationship evolved, and especially since we moved to Cheshire, I was rarely in the same room when she had other lovers.
Carlton was a successful businessman in his mid-twenties. He owned four franchises, bought with money his grandfather left him, and led a debauched lifestyle. Victoria had met him at the sex club where he was an “elite member,” vouched for his virility, and he had invited Clare on a date.
And me.
My fiancée had laughed when he had ordered her to bring along “her cuck” and he had been clear in what we had to wear. She was told to attire herself in black lingerie, a short, sexy but elegant dress, and an anklet. Clare gave me a pale pink T-shirt, low-cut denim shorts and shocking pink Doc Marten shoes to put on. I looked ridiculous.
It was freezing in late February, and the icy wind had painted my hairless, exposed skin with goosebumps. I moaned to Clare about it, as we waited outside the pub – our rendezvous point – but she just shook her head. “I am forever wearing short dresses and skirts, and no-one cares that my bare legs are cold.”
She wrapped her coat tightly around her skin, and stared into the night, across the well-lit Mancunian plaza.
Carlton was exactly what I expected. Short, curly black hair with a dash of designer stubble. At just over six feet, he was tall and commanding without being freakishly lanky. He wore an expensive suit, impeccably tailored, and oozed confidence.
He strode over to my fiancée, held out a single red rose a little gift. “Mon amour,” he oozed seductively in an enchanting voice and kissed her right hand. “You look ravishing.”
He never glanced at me or offered me a word. He barely noticed me as he took my partner’s palm in his and guided her to the exclusive restaurant adjacent to the bar. “James, Carlton James, I booked earlier,” he called out to the Maitre d’ standing at the entrance of the plush eaterie. “Table for three.”
“Ah, Mr James, sir. Welcome back. I trust you had a pleasant time last week,” the well-dressed man replied, and led us to a table at the rear of the premises. He gave us menus with ridiculously high prices next to the meals.
Carlton sat opposite Clare. His hand rested in her palm, and his eyes met with hers. “Do you like champagne?” He asked. “Because they do a lovely Ruinart that I would love to share with someone so intoxicating.”
The host returned to our table and bowed. “Mr James, sir. May we have a small word with you?”
“Of course, Michael, of course,” the smooth businessman uttered, and rose from his chair. “Excuse me for just a moment, dear.”
They spoke in low voices a few feet away, but loud enough so I could hear every word. I would be naïve if I didn’t think that was deliberate. “Mr James, one of your companions appears to be violating the dress code for this evening.”
“Michael, I apologise profusely. That lady is my employee of the month, and she has brought her baby brother. He is not used to these sorts of restaurants, and if you want him to leave, I will send him to McDonalds. I understand that this establishment is the very cream of Mancunian cuisine and requires a certain class of people. I just wanted to treat him to a little refinement. A little sophistication.” The two men, wrapped in impeccable suits, peered down at me. “I suppose this may be a bridge too far.”
Michael sniggered. “Mr James, sir. We are most appreciative of your understanding in this matter.”
With that, Carlton dismissed me to the fast-food restaurant on the next street as my fiancée and her date tucked into a three course meal and a bottle of expensive fizzy white wine. It had always been designed like that; he passed me a paperback novel with an erotic cover from his inside front pocket. “Read that, and get yourself a Big Mac Meal, eh? We will be done in a couple of hours.”
The whole disappointment and embarrassment was an aphrodisiac. Whispered comments as I traversed the restaurant, holding the filthy book, while dressed in an absurd outfit. The fast-food diner staff said nothing, but I got a couple of glances as I paid for my meal and sat in the corner of their outlet reading the obscene publication, and watched the evening trade of clientele who visited the establishment for unhealthy food.
I got a few second glances. An effeminate man commented on my choice of reading material, but I was not the most outrageously dressed visitor to the American burger joint. I was a little relieved that the Mancunian evening attracted an eclectic mix of personalities stuffed with eccentrics. Essentially, as outlandish and bizarre as my outfit was, I blended into the crazy Manchester nightlife.
I read the book before Clare and Carlton finished their meal; the plot was basic, but the erotic scenes of the bisexual submissive cuckold was excruciatingly hot. It was the sort of sex that my fiancée and I sought, and it was the type of dirty fiction that I would have bought.
Clare turned heads. My lover attracted the attention of the patrons of the fast-food eaterie, and men did eye her as her heels tapped on the tiled floor and she leant on the neighbouring table. “Jon, dear. I am ready to go back. Are you coming?”
I could not get out of the restaurant quick enough and had to ride in the front seat of the taxi back to Carlton’s plush Mancunian flat.
His property had extensive views over the canal and boasted three bedrooms. Modern, slick and new, I knew Clare’s pussy would drip from the suave opulence and confidence of her date. He made them both cocktails and passed me a can of economy lager. He ran his hand up my fiancee’s bare leg and caused her hem to ride up as they relaxed on the leather sofa.
“Go sit over there,” he ordered and sent me to a bar stool on his breakfast bar.
Clare’s black skintight dress was on the floor in minutes and was swiftly joined by his trousers and shirt as they kissed on the sofa.
They entranced me; my cock pressed against my briefs under the skintight denim shorts as I watched him smoothly seducing my partner. His hands had free license to roam over her succulent, elegant body. He had some muscles on his hairless chest, but was no gym hound. Good definition without being obsessive.
I was a little envious of the way my fiancée melted in his presence. Of his elegance and confidence. Of his effortless seduction. Of everything.
Clare’s dark bra was the next item he liberated and deftly flung across the room. He looked up at me and gave me a wicked smile. “Get naked, cuck.”
The leather cover was cool on my bare backside as I watched the suave businessman seduce my fiancée. His hands caressed her exposed skin, his fingers twirled over her bare nipples and his lips brought whimpers as they danced over her body.
He created a sensual delight, a mood of eroticism and expectation that caused Clare to gasp and squeal. Carlton toyed with her; my slut was desperate for sex within minutes.
He smoothly unhooked my fiancée’s briefs from her ankles and threw them to me, sat in the chair in the corner of the room. “Put them on. Because while I fuck your girl, you are going to cum in her panties.”
Clare said nothing as he bullied me. Carlton spied me don the lacy underwear and with a wry smile turned his attention back to my partner.
His fingers floated over her mons, elicited expectant moans and squeals, and then plunged between her legs. She wanted it. She gasped and begged for him to skewer her pussy, as their lips meshed and their bodies tessellated.
Smooth. Tactile. An almost spiritual embrace of two lovers entwined in a heavenly embrace. Without pausing, his fingers became buried in her cunt, and his thumb nestled against her clit. I watched his powerful strokes spearing into my fiancee’s unguarded pussy.
Her legs parted, her holes available. She would have refused nothing he wanted. Debauched crying and hedonistic moaning followed her waspish breathing and loud groans. So quick, so effortless, so satisfying. My cock leaked into Clare’s briefs and he made eye contact with me before a passionate snog with my wife.
“Lean there,” he told her, and positioned her knees on the seat of the sofa with her hands resting on the back. She looked at me. “And you, cuck. Look in that drawer!” It was empty, except for a small bullet vibrator. He smiled and pushed his unfettered cock at the entrance of my fiancée’s hole. “Turn it on and put it on the briefs. If you cum before I do, you get to lick out your wife!”
Clare beamed at me. Perhaps it was him marrying her off, or the humiliation I should have felt. Or the satisfying stretching of her cunt as his meaty prick slid past her wetness. Or everything, but she squealed and smiled as he made forceful yet irregular strokes into her.
“Watch him, he’s going to come so quickly as he sits in your knickers and watches a real man fuck his girl. These cucks love it.”
Clare loved it. Her bull humiliating her partner was one of her many fantasies, and it ticked many of her slutty, filthy boxes. She stared at me and I saw animalistic passion in her scintillating green eyes.
The vibrations from the powerful sex toy sizzled against my prick, stretching the frilly underwear. I adored the sensations, but savoured the moment. Carlton’s powerful thighs drilled my woman, causing her to squeal and grunt. His thrusts were careful and measured. His slow, rhythmic pumping was calm and steady; their flesh slapping and fierce grunting was arousing. He flexed his control.
My balls sizzled. I could feel the hot, scorching eruption welling from inside. My muscles tensed, my breathing quickened and my sensitive prick flushed with electric sexual energy. Several waves of orgasm swept through my skin and dampened the underwear wrapped around my crotch. Clare smiled at me, Carlton grinned.
I felt weak and small. Drained, almost, as the cum bubbled through the black lace.
But I felt alive as Clare gasped. Carlton gripped the tops of her thighs and jackhammered his prick into her sopping hole. He wanted to highlight the difference between us, as he pounded his thick meat into my lithe fiancée.
Rutting, passionate, fervent intercourse that left Clare groaning. Her body pushed against the back of the sofa as he forcefully exhibited his masculinity and power. She came on his prick, screaming in ecstasy as his relentless thrashing of her cunt drove her to a long, explosive climax.
Finally, he drove his cock into Clare’s exposed hole and unloaded the contents of his balls. Never before had I been so eager to lick my fiancée’s cunt after bareback sex. Never had I supped at her well-fucked pussy and savoured the delicate tastes of cum, interspersed with her honey, so wantonly or excitedly. It was too much for me to even try to resist, and Carlton watched on with a wry smile. His sexuality as much as mine. He needed to be the alpha male and the demonstration of his virility and my submissiveness made him hard. Clare loved every moment of my tongue wrapped around her creamy slit. Her partner debasing himself at her used cunt.
Eventually, he took me to the bathroom and watched as I stripped naked once more, emptied my bladder and then handcuffed me to the single bed in the spare bedroom. “We don’t want to be disturbed,” Clare told me from the doorway. “Sweet Dreams,” she muttered, and grabbed Carlton’s hand as they left the room.
I had to listen to their wild sex all night. The headboard banging against the wall, the groans and cries from Clare. The trips to the bathroom or the sounds of the porn video from his bedroom. My imagination was a greater torture than anything they could have devised. I wanted to watch. I wanted to slip under the sheets and gently kiss my fiancée’s clit as her well-endowed partner speared her lips. I wanted to run oiled fingers over their naked bodies and suck on the unloading balls of the alpha male. I wanted to be party to their games.
Instead, they imprisoned me. Tortured by the noises of their lustful encounters and kept awake by every sound from the neighbouring bedroom. It was a restless night. For all of us.
Clare woke me the following day. Carlton had woken up early, banged my fiancée and then gone into work, and with me still tied up, she gently caressed my prick into an erection, before straddling it.
“Four times last night,” she whispered. “Four loads he dumped in me. It felt so, so good. To have bareback sex with someone clean.” I gulped as her cunt slipped over my stiff dick.
“The last time he went while I had three of my orgasms. You’ve never done that, have you? You should see his underwear, no lacy panties for him.”
And so her taunting continued. She put her hands on my shoulders as she rotated her pelvis, pressing my naked body into the bed as she ground against my throbbing cock.
Every word took me closer, every sashay of her hips sent shivers from across my flesh. I was helpless, in every sense. I was her toy and her masochistic lover.
She knew her accounts of his virility and masculinity would humiliate and degrade me. She meant belittled my prowess. Her comparisons between us were withering and chastening. Yet, her pussy slammed against my prick. Soft, wet and warm. Her fingers wrapped around my nipples for a delightful torment while her womanhood massaged my cock.
I panted, sighed, squealed, writhed and moaned. The beautiful embrace of my partner, reconnecting with her fiance, as her femininity coaxed several jets of cum into her sodden cunt, before she straddled my face and let me suck the fruits of my balls from my fiancée.
We both had to do a “walk of shame” the following day. Clare wore a short, expensive evening dress without underwear and I looked ridiculous in the bright pink Doc Martens and tight denim shorts. We arrived at the summerhouse at mid-morning.
Martin demanded a blowjob after I told him about my evening. Much of it was what he enjoyed, and the sex was the unexpected treat. Our host pushed my lips around his member, and it took remarkably little effort for him to fire a mouthful of cum over my tongue.
It had been months since Victoria had given her spouse access to her cunt, and it had been years since he could do it condom-free. Those were not the privileges she allowed her husband to enjoy.
The days after Clare’s overnight stay with Carlton, she became relentless. I had sex with her again, the following week, and she pegged me three times. Her contingent of lovers swelled too – two guys at the stables, her personal trainer, one gardener, Victoria, and the apprentice at the local coffee shop in the disabled toilet. “He had never done anal. He’s eighteen and every girlfriend he has had, has refused.”
“Did he like it?”
“He enjoyed sodomising me,” Clare replied with a glint. “And he loved it when I got my strapon out. I promised him he could fuck me every day that week after work if he gave me ten minutes with my toy, and his ass, and he didn’t enjoy it.” She stared at me and sighed. “Why are men so insecure about sticking big dildos up their bum hole? He kept telling me he wasn’t gay, and he didn’t want to like it, but he did. As if a girl banging your arse makes you gay!”
“I’m not insecure and I love you banging my arse,” I replied with a grin.
“Yeah, but you admit you’re mostly gay.” She raised her eyebrows at me. “You may love me, but one woman will never be enough to satisfy you. You need cocks too.”
“That’s bisexual. Not mostly gay.”
“Honey,” she soothed. “What do you do every Saturday?” Before I could answer, she continued. “And how excited does that make you? How much do you enjoy it?” I blushed. “If I died tomorrow, would you replace with my a bird or a bloke?”
“I couldn’t replace you.” She chortled and looked across at me. “I couldn’t have a relationship with a guy. I could never love a guy like I love you.”
“So you’re emotionally straight and sexually almost gay?”
“Well … I do adore sex with women. I’d say sexually bi.”
She raised her eyebrows at me with her wide-eyed expression. “Hmmm. If you were spending the night with a football team for uncomplicated sex, would it be the women’s team or men’s team that gives you the most pleasure?” She asked. “And there is no mixed team. It’s either the ladies or the gents.”
“Well … I suppose, it’s the men’s team. Because I get all the heterosexual sex, I could want from you.”
She giggled a little more, but said nothing. But it left me wondering about my sexuality.
I was fortunate that I had plenty of opportunity to explore my same-sex tendencies and fantasies, and I had grown very close to Martin and Scott.
Since the environmental health inspector had visited Martin, he been increasingly demanding and especially horny. A day did not pass when he desired some sort of release, and I pressed on his muscles with oiled hands almost every evening, before coaxing an orgasm from his balls with either my greased fingers or eager mouth.
One day towards the end of February, Martin tapped me on the shoulder and held out a boiler suit. “What’s this for?”
“We are going snooping. Recon work. My neighbour’s gone out, and his wife’s not at home.”
“Really?” I asked as he put clothing on the table. He grunted at my reticience, and explained that he was going to spy anyway whether I joined him or not. I rationalised that if I went with him, I could try and stop him from doing something really stupid. I donned the rubber gloves, thin white all-in-one suit and some trainers, before the two of us quietly slipped out of Martin’s garden and into the track behind his summerhouse.
The neighbouring house – and last property in the cul-de-sac – was the largest estate on the road, and the imposing building, covered in ivy, dominated the immaculate garden and extensive grounds. His neighbour had secured the gates from the track with a rusty, failing padlock, which Martin yanked open. “He’s not replaced that in a dozen years. Cheap rubbish.”
He spoke with a gleeful tone and skipped along the hedge boundary towards the imposing building. “Locked,” he moaned as he tugged on the back door.
“That’s breaking and entering.”
Martin slipped a key from his pocket and tried it in the lock, but the tumbler didn’t budge. “Fucker, he’s changed the locks.” He looked at me with a sigh. “When we moved in, we found a pot full of keys from the previous owner. I forgot about them until yesterday, but this was labelled “#6 Back Door.”
“What are we doing here?”
“Just looking for clues. He is trying to stop our parties and that cannot happen. I need … something.”
I walked along the edge of the house, looking into the expansive oak-panelled dining room, and luxurious office. “We are so getting caught,” I moaned, cupping my hands over my eyes to look past the leather chair and oak desk. “Hey, you got a pen and a paper?”
“No,” Martin replied. “Why?” He looked at the Wi-Fi router perched on the ten-inch window-sill and giggled as I pointed out the password printed on the back. “I’ll take a picture on my phone.”
We were just about to walk around the front of the house when we heard a car door slam coming from the driveway, and we both scampered down the length of the garden and through the gate.
“What exactly did we achieve?” I moaned.
“Lots,” my host replied in a cheerful voice. “I photographed his office extensively. When I blow these up on my computer, I’ll see every book he has, the papers on his desk and everything. He’s not very security conscious.”
“Or maybe he doesn’t expect James Bond to break into his garden.”
I was a little relieved when Victoria took her husband into the dungeon for the afternoon. She had had a disappointing morning at the gym and needed to take her anger out on Martin’s unblemished flesh.
There was an intensity about Martin’s obsession with his neighbour, and while the cantankerous man reciprocated the feud, it was not healthy and would only lead to trouble. I told Clare what we had done, and she promised to speak, in confidence, to her best friend. When Victoria reddened and blackened Martin’s skin and took him to one of his sordid happy places, he became more manageable, and would put the thoughts of the troublesome man from his mind.
My manager sent me a strongly worded e-mail towards the end of February. I had taken very little of my holiday allowance, and with the end of the financial year nearly upon me, I had over a dozen days that I had to use or lose. “You need to learn to relax and enjoy life,” his patronising mail read, and I immediately booked a week away from the “office.”
Martin, who worked anything from fifteen minutes to fifteen hours each day, asked if I had any plans, which I didn’t. “I’m going to ask Clare if I may go to the sauna. And I wouldn’t mind her taking a couple of days off so we can spend time together. Her work must owe her some holiday.”
Martin nodded and twiddled with his chastity cage that Victoria had locked him in all week. “Next Tuesday they have a naked day at the sauna. Fancy it?”
I very much did, and once Clare offered no objections to my attendance, I dropped Andre a private message on Twitter. Our group swelled to three.
Later that evening, as we ate dinner, our partners devised a game. When we went, Martin and I would get a single point for every guy we gave a handjob to, three points for every bloke we blew to orgasm, and would get five for every dick that unloaded inside our arse. The winner would get a threesome with Victoria and Clare.
It was Clare’s idea initially, and she smirked as she looked at me. I was lucky that my fiancée genuinely enjoyed giving her partner sexual freedom and understood my needs.
And that evening she understood a little more, as she donned her strapon and plundered my arsehole with rampant abandon to leave me a soggy, grunting, groaning mess.
* * * * *
Andre’s hands shook when he arrived at the summerhouse, as he tentatively knocked on the double-glazing of Martin’s timber fornication den. Although it was three hours before midday, he needed a shot of whisky to calm his nerves. I helped him douche himself clean as we prepared for a day at the sauna.
Like me, Andre had used his owing holiday before the end of the year, but he had not disclosed his bicuriousity to his partner. I could not imagine what it would be like to hide a key part of my sexuality from Clare. Although, at the summerhouse party, he also screwed Clare, which I also didn’t think his girlfriend would be forgiving of, either.
The infamous sauna was located down on a narrow side-street, in the middle of an industrial park in a town near Manchester. We had to park the car a few minutes’ walk away, and I could tell Andre was nervous. His hands shook and if he had been alone, he would have lost his nerve.
Instead, we walked alongside the four-storey buildings that were once factories and mills, and entered through a nondescript dark wooden door. Only the gold sign with the business name in black lettering was any suggestion that the building was a sauna.
We crowded into the small foyer; clean cream walls, with a service hatch. Two topless men in a framed picture and a poster advertising the events running at the “all-male clothing-optional spa” indicated what went on behind the closed doors.
A forty-something man leaned through the service window. “Three of you?” He barked, causing Andre to jump. He wore a black vest top that stretched across his impressive physique and made eye contact with the trembling Andre.
“Yeah,” Martin replied, and placed sixty pounds on the varnished table. “I’ve been many times before, these two are virgins. Put the thirty quid on the tags.”
“Fresh meat,” he joked, and replaced the banknotes with three wrist tags.
“Well, neither of them are actual virgins,” Martin laughed. “But they’ve never been here. But I’ll show ‘em round.”
“These are your locker keys and your tab. Each one has a twelve quid on it, which is the tenner and your change from the entry. You can stay until we close, which is eleven in the evening. Please wear a towel in the bar area.”
“Thank you.”
“Happy fucking,” he jovially replied, and Martin was the first to go through the turnstile into the sauna.
We followed him down a narrow corridor with a threadbare carpet, to a flight of stairs and then into a brightly lit locker room. I smelt Chlorine in the steamy, warm air and my eyes focused on the activity directly in front of us.
Three men were already in the square room, lined with lockers. A twink was on his knees, boldly fellating an older, well-endowed gentleman. No discretion, no privacy, but shamelessly sucking the dick of the man old enough to be his father. “Oh fuck,” Andre muttered.
“Give it an hour and that’ll be you,” Martin joked, and Andre gulped. The stiffness in his shorts dovetailed with the panic in his eyes. He was excited and scared. He was about to experience all of his fantasies, and that terrified him.
But he had never been so aroused or stimulated. He undressed in seconds, as he jammed his tracksuit bottoms, underpants, socks and T-shirt inside his locker before I was even undressed.
“The showers are through there,” Martin gestured and watched him disappear past the groaning man and into the steaming water. “Where shall we take him first?”
“I was going to visit the gloryholes,” I replied, and closed the door on my locker. “I know they have them here, as I checked on the website. That’s all he was talking about while he cleaned himself out. Wants to give blowjobs. Or try to.”
“They have dozens of gloryholes. Just by the cafe are the gloryhole cabins. They have some downstairs for passing trade. There are some on the top floor, but that’s Perspex booths where men can piss too.”
“Kinky.” Martin grinned and slipped his locker key around his wrist. He made eye contact with the daddy, enjoying his blowjob, and gave a gentle nod of the head. Andre was waiting at the end of the line of communal showers with a white towel around his waist. He was eager.
The changing room was at one end of a long, wide atrium. Hustle and bustle came from every direction, sounds of sex or pornography echoed from the walls and Martin gestured at the stairs.
“One floor up is the relaxation rooms, massage rooms and maze. Two floors up is the kink dungeon. Through there is the jacuzzi,” he said, pointing to the end of the corridor. “Then there is the cafe, steam room, sauna, anonymous slings and the dark room.”
“OK,” I turned to Andre. “Gloryhole first? You said you wanted to give a blowjob.”
He hummed, and I took a step towards the cafe when a loud cry emanated from the sauna. “Hey, summerhouse fags!”
The tall, dark figure of the commanding centre-back strode barefoot across the tiled floor. Wes, the bisexual top, put his hand on Martin’s shoulder. Andre’s eyes stared at Wes’s impressive member. “Hiya,” Martin whimpered.
“Me and the lads have exhausted the two white bitches we had, so we need more.”
“I’ll catch you later,” I replied. “Got to introduce a …”
“… virgin?” Wes asked and laughed as he looked at Andre. “What’s the matter, kid? You ain’t seen black meat before.” Andre was transfixed, and the footballer shook his head as the club captain grabbed Martin’s arm and led him towards the dark room. “You’ll do.”
The gloryhole stalls were in the same room as the bustling cafe and lounge. Spacious wooden booths, that two of us could squeeze into, and with a feint low light. I flicked a switch beside the cabin door and a bright red bulb illuminated the front of the booth, inside the cafeteria.
I peered through the hole and although I had a narrow field of vision, I could see a barman serving two naked men and a handful of people lounging on towels on sofas.
“You OK?” I asked Andre, and he nodded. I removed my towel and flung it by the door behind us. “It’ll get warm in here.” My companion said nothing as he did the same, and his stiff prick strained as he stared at the hole. “OK, take this slowly and …”
“I’ve been practising with my dildo,” he said quickly. “I can take it all in without gagging as I saw a video on SexTube!”
“Excellent,” I replied, and took a deep breath. He was too excited, and I hoped reality would satisfy his fantasy. We didn’t have to wait long before the amount of light in the cabin dropped and an expectant man stuffed a white cock through the hole.
Andre leant forward immediately, and I tugged him back. On the wall was a hand-pump lube dispenser, and I covered the expectant prick with a small squirt of water-based lubricant. “Give him a stroke first, get him going.”
“But I can do that with my mouth. It’s what the gay pornos do!”
“You are a long way from being a porn star!” Andre, who had never touched an erect cock that wasn’t his, slowly danced his fingers along the stout member with trembling hands. “Now open wide. Really wide. No teeth. Breath through your nose and take just the tip.”
Andre did. Just as Clare had helped me the first time I had fellated someone, I helped Andre. I guided his lips over the glans and slowly edged the cock into his mouth. I helped him slowly stroke the shaft as his tongue lavished licks of love on this unknown dick. I slowed him down as he tried to race to orgasm, and I taught him to alternate his movements to add variety to his technique.
“Moan,” I whispered to him. “Show him you are enjoying it.” Because Andre was relishing it. His prick had not flagged as he had spent five minutes lovingly blowing that stiff white meat.
The lack of space meant I pressed my hot naked body against his, as his head bobbed gently on the anonymous cock. His hands worked the shaft, and I ran my hands over his sweaty torso.
He was not ready for the eruption. The twitching prick was not enough of a clue, and the first wave of semen smashed against his gag reflex. The second hit him in the chest, and then me in the face.
“Nice one!” The man gruffly called out, and the cock slipped from Andre’s hand. He panted.
“I ain’t a …”
“I know,” I muttered. “Sexuality is complex.”
“But sucking dick is amazing! It’s tastes weird and pre-cum is bitter, but that’s … I want to do it again! I wanna try deep throat.”
“Just …”
“I saw it in a video.”
“One step at a time!” Andre had the chance to get another, and then another. We were the only occupied gloryhole booth, and we had a steady stream of pricks to service.
We took it in turns, and I enjoyed it as much as he did. My first cock was black, thick, stubby beast. In the half-light, my pale fingers curling around the darkness of his shaft was erotic. And then the unmistakable squelch, and the warmth of his dick as my lips sucked his glans.
The loving, sensual, careful art of cocksucking. Smooth, gentle strokes of my tongue and mouth that massages pleasure and enjoyment into his epic shaft. Bliss, for both of us. Mesmerising for Andre.
The booth smelt of male sexuality and masculinity. We both reeked of sweat and sex. The nameless cock quivered. The scent drew me closer, and I wrapped my tongue over the head, licking furiously as the timber panel in front of me rattled. He grunted, and his dick squirted thick waves of cum against my tongue.
Six squirts of euphoria.
After three cocks each, I suggested that we broke for lunch. I was thirsty in that sweatbox and needed to have a drink that wasn’t semen. Andre hesitated. “You can come back,” I told him.
We had a quick shower and sat down in the cafe to have a bacon roll. He looked around the room. “Who did I blow?”
I shrugged. “That’s the idea.”
“But, I want to know. I want to know who had the small dick at the end but who came loads. His cum tasted of kiwi fruit!”
The cafe had two dozen men in it, sat at tables or on sofas. Some were eating or drinking, while others were just chatting. Every age from early twenties to late sixties, with every race, body type and hair colour. Everyone naked, except for towels.
“Is this seat taken?” I looked at the short, dark brown-haired man, slightly younger than me but similar in age to Andre. He was slight, and at only 5ft 6in, had the youthful look that probably saw him ID’ed on every occasion. He put a plate of pasta in a white goo and sat down opposite me. “Thanks.”
I introduced us, and he took a huge swill of his large drink. “I heard you talking about the gloryholes,” he said, scoffing the dinner into his mouth. “That’s my thing.” He looked at Andre and then me. “I’ve not seen you here before.”
“We ain’t been in here before.”
“Bobby,” he said and held out his hand. “I … err … come here once a month. Several hours on the gloryholes, sometimes a fuck or two, and then the sauna. Spend all evening here. You got wives? Girlfriends?” Andre hesitated. “Half of the blokes here have birds at home and come to get blowjobs that their bitches at home dain’t give them. Some come to get what their girls can’t give ‘em. There’s more straight guys than homos, and it’s full of gay sex!” He chuckled.
“My fiancée encourages me. We have a weird dynamic.”
“Yeah, sounds good. Wish mine did.”
“My girlfriend doesn’t know I am here,” Andre admitted, and Bobby smiled back.
“Mine neither. I do a two ‘til ten shift at the warehouse. So I take a half-hour lunch every day and build up the time off to get a day off in lieu every month. My bird thinks I’m off working today, so I have to stay here for eight hours.”
“Around all this?” Andre asked.
“Yeah, it’s a hard life,” he chuckled. “You don’t want to miss the Gallery.” He scraped his plate clean with his fork and pushed it to one side. “It’s down the stairs and is at street level. On the main road, there’s a door, and it just leads to a wall of booths. Any man can come in, drop his trousers and get sucked by us. Half the factories ‘round here and offices know about it.”
“So, truly anonymous?” I asked.
“Yeah. If you come on Friday, it’s so busy all day, but the gallery is full of cocksuckers, fighting over the dicks. Tuesdays are better. I’ve had that room to myself before.” He chuckled and nodded at us. “Make sure you take some water down with you. You don’t want to get dehydrated.”
We took his advice and followed him down the stairs to a corridor leading to a narrow room, barely two metres wide, with a padded floor. On one long wall there were eight holes, spaced a metre apart. On the opposite wall were two monitors – one showed hardcore pornography and the other a set of CCTV cameras showing the other side of the partition.
Bobby flicked a light on. We were alone, and he walked up to the urinal by the stairs and emptied his bladder. A wall of non-partitioned holes, so everyone could watch us in the middle of fellatio. A urinal and sink, which anyone could use and witness. There was no privacy for the cocksuckers.
“They designed this place as a punishment, apparently. They’d send boys who needed disciplining down here, but I love it.” He grinned and stared at the CCTV screen. The monitor showed the eight cameras from the booths, plus the camera outside the partitions.
We watched a member of the sauna staff enter from a service door, and clean the stalls, spending ten minutes as we chatted. The twenty-something warehouse operative had been coming to the gay venue for five years and had been dating his girlfriend for four.
He admitted that if she knew about his cocksucking hobby, she would split up with him, but he enjoyed it too much to stop. He loved the stories I told him of Clare and the summerhouse, and when the cleaner stuck his prick through the hole, he let Andre service the expectant dick as I explained more of my relationship.
I was lucky; I knew that. Bobby said he wished for something as dirty and understanding as what I had with Clare, and he smiled as Andre covered his face with semen. “He’s a quick learner!”
When a second dick came through the wall, Bobby tapped the footballer on the head and knelt on the floor. “Watch,” he said, and elegantly swept his mouth across the thick, monstrous cock.
Deep throating was easy for him. He worked that dick and made sensual love to the humongous shaft and sucked the large tool until the man orgasmed.
From that moment, the traffic increased. Whether it was the red light over the door in the street or the word of mouth that there were free blowjobs at the gloryhole gallery, barely a minute passed when there wasn’t a cock to service.
It was a baptism of fire for Andre; it was heaven for me. Licking, sucking, slobbering, kissing, dribbling over a steady stream of meat. I adored every single one – from the stubby dicks that oozed pre-cum and nestled inside my mouth, to the veiny, ridged members that rippled as my lips swept across the shaft.
And the titanic freakish colossus – a demonic behemoth that was the length of my forearm and not much thinner. A mutant that squeezed through the nine-inch wide hole and twitched expectantly.
Bobby beamed, and we shared the duties. Too big for him to deep-throat. We took it in turns to blow this abnormal beast. He leaked pre-cum like a hose and spewed jets of cum into Bobby’s face as he lasted over twenty minutes of sensual fellatio.
But most of the fourteen cocks that I sucked over a three-hour period were not mammoth members of giant proportions but averagely sized dicks. And I was a cocksucking slut swallowing cum like a whore turning cheap tricks.
Each time, I’d massage the anonymous cock with lubed, wet hands, before I worked my tongue around the head. I’d bob down the shaft and alternate speeds, patterns and pressure. I’d suck every prick and draw their orgasmic bliss from them before swallowing every drop that entered my mouth.
Because that’s the only way to finish a blowjob. To swallow. To savour that musky, sapid superior seed from an alpha male and allow it to slip down the submissive’s throat. Bobby did so too. It was our nature, and something we did.
By six in the evening, my stomach rumbled, and my jaw ached. Two more cocksuckers had joined us, and we left them to the never-ending stream of after-work men to service. “What do you do for tea?” I asked, wondering where Martin was for the first time that afternoon.
“I sometimes order a takeaway. Jimmy on Reception is good and will happily take delivery, but he does sometimes expect a tip.”
“Blowjob?”
“No, a slice!” Bobby laughed. “There are three hundred men who come here on most days. More than a couple are bottoms, and each one will not hesitate in giving Jimmy an orgasm. He would need balls the size of boulders!”
We ordered two pizzas from the local takeaway. The sauna added a “corkage” charge, and I paid for it on my credit card. When I returned from putting my wallet back in the locker, Andre was inside the gloryhole booth once more, and Bobby was on his phone.
“That’s Heather,” he said and showed a short, young woman with long black hair and tight denim shorts. “She’s reminding me to get her shampoo on the way home.” He smiled. “This is the time where, if I was at work, I’d be having my break so I need to reply to her.”
I showed him a picture of Clare, surrounded by six men and Victoria, in the hot tub and his eyes widened. “Could you cope with Heather having other lovers?”
“Women easily. But not men. I won’t sleep with another woman. She can’t sleep with another man. Don’t know how you do it.” We chatted warmly. I liked him, and we clicked easily. I knew that he was someone I could build a great friendship with. We chuckled at Andre, who returned with cum streaked across his face and hair, and we sent into the showers.
The room was quieter than before, and Bobby said this was husbands going home to wives and girlfriends for tea. “It’ll get busier later.”
Martin entered the cafe, just as the pizzas arrived. He looked well fucked, and he slouched in a chair with a broad grin. “Good afternoon?”
“Oh, the best. Wes and Devon were there, and there were ten of them. Me and three others. It was incredible. I love the sauna. It’s just like a big summerhouse.”
“Do you want a couple of slices of pizza?”
“The boys are getting curry delivered to their private room and they require …”
“Your waiting service?” I finished for him.
“Yeah, I was going to see if you and Andre were free, but you look … busy! It’s Devon’s birthday, so this is his party.”
“Nice!”
“Oh, one hundred and twelve points already,” Martin boasted. I had forgotten about the game, but mentally calculated. “Oh, fifty odd. You’ll walk this.” The millionaire nodded. “As we always knew you would. You are far sluttier than me.”
Martin took a slice of pizza and wandered back towards the stairs. “I normally go up to the relaxation rooms after tea,” Bobby said with a mouthful of pepperoni. “I often get a good fucking and then slip downstairs for some more gloryhole fun.”
“OK … Can we…”
“Come too!” The lithe man offered. “It’s good.” I put the empty pizza boxes in the bin and followed Bobby up to the second floor. The room was full of swings and restraints, but he opened a door to a side room with a huge glass window, and turned the light on. He picked up three yellow rubber bands from a bowl on the wall and passed one to me. “This says you are a safe-sex bottom. Red is bareback bottom, blue is oral only, green is safe-sex top, black is BDSM, purple is backback top,” he rattled off. “When this gets busier, this says what you want without having to explain it.” He threw packets of lube and condoms onto the bed. “We’ll need them!”
I could see two men spit-roasting another in an adjacent small room. The glass walls gave no privacy to the inhabitants.
We lounged on the vast bed, while Andre sat on the padded step. It took almost half-an-hour for our first visitor. Two men, aged in their mid-forties, entered and smiled at Bobby. “You again,” the tall, older gentleman cried. Smatterings of grey hair, yet with an unmistakable air of sophistication and confidence. Towels became puddles on the floor, and Bobby serviced two men simultaneously.
Greed. Gluttony. Lust.
And we had envy. I wanted some.
The George Clooney lookalike pressed his lips against Bobby’s mouth, seducing him with effortless ease. His legs parted easily, and the lubricated, condom-clad cock of an older alpha male pressed against Bobby’s hole. My new friend gasped and screwed his face as he adjusted to the intrusion, while the grey-haired gentleman took the open mouth as an invitation to shovel a thick cock down his throat.
But we didn’t have long to wait. A man with a Liverpool tattoo took a fancy to Andre, and the footballer eagerly embraced his inner slut.
My first was a short, stubby man, with a short, stubby prick. I sucked his dick to its fullest as he sat on the bed and then straddled his cock. I guided myself onto his member, steering his dick into my lubricated hole.
Gently lowering my hips and smoothly bucking my body. Clare loved screwing my arse in this way, as it meant I did all the work. I used my thighs to impale his dick into me, and to work his member against my prostate.
And it caused my dick to bounce. As I rode him like a cheap floosie, my cock flapped against his skin. It was like I was back in the summerhouse. Either side of me, men were ploughing men. Grunts, groans, slapping flesh and squeaking springs. The room smelt of latex, lube, sweat and sin.
After the short stubby man filled his rubber, another replaced him and then another. They passed us around like strippers at a party. Bobby got a smacked arse, Andre got dowsed in cum. They blindfolded me and three different men fucked me doggy-style. Each one slammed their unique pricks against my prostate and gripped my waist like the slut I was to power their dick passed my resistance.
Each one imposed their masculinity on me and took their pleasure from my body. Every single man rammed their dicks into my hole, leaving me helpless and breathless.
And satisfied. My inner submissive was aglow from the rampant humiliation. I had no say or veto. A sex object to sate the desires of alpha men.
I didn’t know who had fucked me. They could have been eighteen-year-old students, forty-year-old married men, seventy-year-old retired shipbuilders or anyone. No dick refused. My butt was a hole for use by superior specimens of masculinity. They saw me; I didn’t see them. I could pass them in the street, or in the supermarket, and they would recognise me as the horny butt-slut who had taken half-a-dozen pricks and I wouldn’t realise.
We left the room as two more eager bottoms joined the party, so we could get refreshments. Andre gulped his drink from the cafe and watched longingly as a guy inside the gloryhole sucked a well-built muscle hound. “Can I look in on Martin?” Andre asked.
“Go for it. It’s through there.” He smiled and skipped towards the Dark Room.
“He’s going to be so sore tomorrow!” I joked, but we all would be. “He’s keen.”
“He is. I was once. Sure you were too! It’s only eight,” Bobby moaned as he downed his drink of water. “I gotta keep myself busy until ten! I’m going back down to the gloryholes. Wanna come? There’s two pubs on the estate, and there’s footy on, so I expect we’ll see a lot of traffic, especially at half-time.”
Bobby was right; there was one guy in the sauna-side of the gloryhole gallery and three pricks waiting to be serviced.
My eyes lit up like a child on Christmas morning. Lubricated fingers gripped the stout, black dick as my mouth slowly worked the brown tip of the impressive schlong. Veiny, warm, musky, and greasy. I loved the extra naughtiness behind the interracial blowjob.
In another world, it was outlawed, prohibited and unthinkable, and those taboo overtones made my fellatio more erotic. And it became even more so as my lips sucked the tip of his prick, so he spewed several waves of cum down my slutty, white throat.
Then I moved onto another prick. And another. They never stopped coming, and I never stopped sucking. I barely noticed the other submissives in the room, as I worked the two gloryholes at the far end of the gallery. As I satisfied one man, another would take his place. A steady stream of thick, hard, horny dicks that I adored pleasing.
Over ninety minutes later, I had a bellyful of cum. My knees were sore, and my jaw ached. I stood up, stretched my muscles and looked at Bobby, covered in streaks of drying ejaculate. He smiled at me; I could feel the fruits of my labours on my body too.
Between us, an unknown man pushed a circumcised prick into the room, through the hole; I made eye contact with my cocksucking friend and fell to my knees in front of the smooth dick. Bobby’s lips massaged the exposed glans, and he worked his tongue around the sensitive frenulum as I gripped the base of his cock with my fist and slowly pumped the groaning man.
We swapped places. My lips wrapped around the soaked tip and I gently pulsed on his prick. Strong sucks on his cock for a second, followed by a swirl of my tongue over his glans. Bobby drove his hand over the shaft, wanking the man closer to his peak. He beamed as he did, concentration etched on his face.
Our minds were focused on the dick. Infatuated by it. The majesty of the prick captivated both of us as we fixated on bringing ecstasy to this anonymous man. I wanted to feel his cock tremble and hear his load groans of orgasmic bliss from behind the thin partition. I needed to taste his creamy nectar and experience the power of my submission. Nothing else mattered. My head bobbed on his dripping manhood.
Bobby tapped me on the shoulder, and I swirled my tongue around his piss slit as we exchanged once more. Bobby deep-throated him and slammed his mouth onto the glistening dick. He grunted as he did, and his erection bobbed from the fierce movement.
An electrifying sight as the energetic Bobby drove the man towards his climax. A frenzied attack on his dripping cock as the young man passionately fellated the spasming prick. I envied him. Jealousy raged within. I wanted that cock; my lust demanded it.
Bobby’s face pistonned over the glans as his fist rubbed the shaft, and he squealed as the jets of pleasure landed on his tongue.
And then he did something I had never experienced with anyone. With the cum leaking from his lips, he kissed me. Our lips met, and he spat the musky creaminess into me. Bobby snowballed me with the anonymous man’s cum. I fell backwards onto the soft floor, and he landed on top of me, passionately embracing and kissing me as he pushed the muskiness into my mouth.
Filthy and dirty. I nearly came.
He grinned as I panted. “Good?”
“Yeah!” I muttered and smiled as the cum slipped down my throat. “Shall we shower?” I asked. I felt sweaty and dirty, and Bobby nodded. We washed the filth from our skin and hair, and walked into the sauna to relax for half-an-hour. My companion and I were the only two people in the steam room; the temperature was low, but we closed the door and slipped inside. He sat on the highest bench and leant against the wet tiles. He groaned when I ran my hands over his slippery thighs.
A gentle massage. A soft, welcoming touch of his skin. I groaned in pleasure as my fingers danced over his desperate shaft and coaxed his cock into an erection.
He needed it. He needed to feel the feather-lite touch on his prick. His mind had been teased and tortured for hours; every touch, every suck, every lick and every thrust to satisfy another had been a further flicker of arousal for him. Every submissive act had made him hornier.
My fingers over his erection were welcome. My lips were ecstasy to him. Touching his desperation was gleeful; I could feel his crotch sizzling underneath my gentle, delicate flicks of his oversensitive glans. His anguished groans of desperation were a wonderful tonic to my own tortured horniness. Softly, I brought him to a crest of his arousal. My hands danced over his smooth, lean torso, as my mouth bobbed over his stiff, leaking prick.
The young warehouse worker squeezed his pelvic muscles and flexed his body. He bucked his hips and waist, and thrashed his thighs as he held onto his climax, intensifying the apex.
And then the flood as the dam broke. The swell of arousal surged through him, and his balls emptied across my tongue and jettisoned his thick seed into the back of my mouth.
I took every drop from the panting man. I savoured every wave of his cum, as I marked our new friendship with a taste of his semen. Like I had done with most of my acquaintances.
Bobby sighed and gulped and smiled at me. He moved down the steps, and grinned as he put his face between my legs, and took my erect cock between his lips.
His finger found my arsehole and slipped inside as his mouth engulfed my sweaty prick. The warmth of the sauna swirled around us as the bisexual slut expertly sucked my dick.
Like Martin, he had an incredible technique. Every touch of his fingers or his lips sent me hurtling towards my climax. My cliff edge. My summit of lust and passion.
I experienced one of the most luscious and enjoyable blowjobs in my life, from the slender warehouse worker. Better than any woman, Bobby worshipped my dick. He lovingly cherished it, and made my body feel a heavenly, uncontrolled energy of eroticism.
I lost control of my own loins. I couldn’t stop my orgasm, even if I wanted to. He forced me to writhe and groan with lust as he performed wondrous magic on my prick. I panted, squealed, cried, bucked and yelled as surges of energy tore through my electrified flesh. Bobby never stopped.
As wave after wave of cum erupted into his mouth, he never paused for a moment. He had wanted to make me feel special, to draw my climax from me, and to leave me sated.
It was something he was very, very good at.
“Wow!” It was the only thing I could think of, or muster the energy to say. The thunderous orgasm had sapped my life force, and I took a few deep breaths. “That was … great!”
Bobby blushed. “Thanks!” He held out his hand to pull me to my feet, and we walked to the changing room to get showered once more.
I traded phone numbers with the incredible cocksucker. “Sucking lots of cocks is better when you can see into the eyes as they come!” I told him. “If you are ever available on Saturdays.”
“I work some Saturdays.”
“Free on others?” He nodded and shrugged.
“I can try. I spend the week after coming here feeling guilty for cheating on Heather.”
“Perhaps you could do what Clare and I do?” I suggested and his face contorted. “Well, give it some thought, for Saturdays at least. It’s an amazing venue and the guys really know how to use you. There are some afternoons where there are just two or three of us, and a dozen horny men.” Bobby licked his lips involuntarily, and I knew I had whetted his appetite.
Martin and Andre finished after I had showered and the footballer shared a blow-by-blow account of his experiences on the journey home. His bicuriosity had gone, and replaced with rampant bisexuality. If he could have the same encounters the following day, he would.
By the time we reached the summerhouse, he had installed two male hookup apps on his phone and was planning his double-life. It was enlightening, but also sordid. Although my relationship with Clare was unusual, and the demands of my fiancée was a little unique, I could not imagine choosing to withhold such an integral part of my personality to the woman I loved.
It would be deceit, and it would build our relationship on a false premise. Andre’s relationship with his delectable girlfriend was a sham, but I didn’t know him well enough to tell him. The same was true of Bobby, and both men betrayed the love they said they had for their partners by hiding their bisexuality.
Despite Clare’s teasing, she knew I loved her. Clare loved me, and we shared a tight, emotional bond. My fiancée could have hundreds of other lovers, and I could savour a thousand dicks, and it wouldn’t change a thing. We worked at our love every day and having different people satisfy each other sexually never dented the deep connection we had.
Bobby and Andre could not say that.
Victoria asked about our performance at the sauna, and Martin had cleared over 250 points. It was an impressive total, and he recounted the dozens of men who he had satisfied.
His reward was a “threesome” in the dungeon, and I watched as the two dominant women donned strapon dildos the size of my forearm and plundered his holes. It was an erotic sight, as his wife prepared his butt and slowly stretched it with increasingly larger buttplugs before the pair of mistresses could press their horse-sized dildos into the submissive millionaire.
Martin was in dreamland.
* * * * *
It was a beautiful winters’ day in early March, that was deceptively bright without being equivalently warm. The blue sky hinted at the onset of Spring, but the Mercury in the thermometer suggested otherwise. Clare left to travel to Bristol for a week to build upon the “strategic direction of the business” with the Board of Directors and other regional bigwigs; it would cement her promotion. She left on Saturday morning, to attend a private dinner party that night with the CEO, and then have a week of back-to-back meetings with senior managers at an exclusive countryside resort and spa. Although it was a working trip, my bride-to-be took plenty of seductive lingerie and a few sex toys.
Victoria booked a villa with a half-a-dozen wild swingers that they knew and flew to the Mediterranean on Saturday morning with her husband. They offered me a place, and I could have extended my holiday, but I did not want to play without Clare. I’d feel guilty that I was on holiday and would not be able to relax and enjoy myself. Martin needed a break after his issues with his neighbour, and I drove the two deviants to the airport at an unmentionable hour, before returning to the summerhouse.
I had planned to take a trip out to the big city and meet join a MeetUp with some security developers. I didn’t fancy a week in isolation, cooking, cleaning and working alone; I needed some company and had made a mental list of people to call to see if they were available during the week.
Scott threw my plans into disarray by knocking on the door of the summerhouse an hour after I had returned from the airport. He held a large rucksack, and his bike lay abandoned on the path. “I need a favour.” His bottom lip wobbled, and for the first time, I saw the cheeky Geordie’s eyes swell. His voice crackled, his hand wiped the tears tumbling down his cheek. His sombre, distressed facial expression was a world away from the charismatic, wild party animal.
“Come in, Scott. What’s the hell happened?”
“Me and Iain. We had a fight. We’ve split up.”
