The Summerhouse: Chapter 15 (Stephen)
The following week was just as manic.
Clare spent Sunday evening at the bowling alley in a short-skirt with two of the waiters, both brothers, from the village pub and then enjoyed the night at their flat in the town centre. Martin and Victoria attended a couples orgy at their sex club, and on Monday our hosts entertained two of Victoria’s friends from school. I’d met Stephen and Charlotte briefly before, but they were doing a ten-day trip around Britain, and were spending the week in Cheshire.
When they arrived, Victoria warmly hugged her friend, before eyeing her partner, stood in just a collar and a leather posing pouch which stretched over his chastity cage. The hostess smiled and embraced him. “Good to see you again,” she beamed. “Both of you, it’s been so long!”
“You too. You look so healthy,” he replied, grinning.
Victoria smirked, kneed him in the crotch, grabbed him by the throat and threw him onto his back on the grass lawn outside. Her short skirt was hitched to her waist, and she urinated over the startled man’s face, laughing as she did. “I have a fourteen inch strap-on for you later, and I got Clare to bottle her piss all week,” she announced.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Yeah, I’m going to make you cry so fucking bad. It’s been months since you’ve come to visit me.” She turned to Charlotte. “Hot-tub, my dear?”
“I’d love to.”
“Stephen, take your bags up, have a shower and you can wear what I’ve put on your bed for you.”
We left the foursome to catch up together, and we walked into the village to visit the local inn, enter their pub quiz. The waiter who served us smiled when he saw Clare and the brazen nineteen-year-old was happy to take my fiancée to the disabled toilet at the end of the evening for twenty minutes.
When we returned to the house, Stephen was staked out in the grass, an adult nappy around his waist and a gas mask on his head. He was writhing and thrashing as his wife watched, laughing.
“He has a litre piss enema and an XXL butt plug,” Victoria explained. “I’ve poured Raw Chilli extract into his cock cage and he’s had a beating!” It was way, way too much for me, and I made my excuses and returned to the summerhouse.
Tuesday night was a little different. After I helped Martin clear the table and clean the dining room, I was summoned to the dungeon. Clare, wearing just a black leather corset and a smile, held a paddle. “We’ve neglected that side of our relationship,” she muttered, and pointed towards the restraints affixed to the wall.
Spread-eagled, naked and pressed against a cold brick in Victoria’s unwelcoming dungeon put me in a compromising position. I knew what was coming.
I closed my eyes and took deep, slow breaths. Relaxing my body, clearing my mind. Focussing on nothing and drifting away.
The first strike echoed around the dungeon. It warmed my skin, and I mewed. Gentle strokes. Loving hits of wifely discipline that radiated contentment.
I adored the firm smacks of her weapon against my exposed flesh. My mind was in another place, my buttocks enjoyed every touch of her leather paddle rhythmically landing on my skin.
“You like that, huh?” Clare asked, but my immobile body didn’t reply. She doubled the power into her strikes. The sound of leather on butt and my grunting echoed in the stone dungeon. My cries filled the room as she struck faster and harder.
And then she smashed the paddle deep against me. Searing pain erupted in my buttocks, and my screams energised my fiancée as she swatted my flesh with renewed abandon. The stinging in my tensed muscles intensified as she grunted with every smack.
“Clare,” I called out. “It hurts.”
“It’s supposed to,” she replied and smashed the paddle into my buttocks several times in quick succession. “Your skin’s gone rather pink.”
“It really stings.”
“Good,” Clare added with a sadistic glee to her voice. “Making men scream gets makes me so playful and horny. You know that!”
Clare squealed as the weapon whacked my flesh once more; I yelled in pain with every hit. My breathing became a desperate pant and tears rolled down my cheeks.
“That’s good,” Victoria called out. “But you need this one now.” I tried to look, but both of the dominant women were directly behind me. I tensed and waited. I felt movement and tensed as I felt a fierce crack against my skin.
My nerves erupted into excruciating agony. It felt like Clare had pressed a sizzling poker against my reddened flesh. White hot, blistering pain from a high-pitched smack. The second hit left my head spinning, and I begged for Clare to stop. “Please, it hurts. Please, Clare. Please.”
“I don’t hear no safeword,” Victoria taunted, and the third strike caused my body to convulse. I bucked my hips, bounced on my toes and writhed as I screamed in sheer agony and sobbed against the rough brickwork.
These were the most painful, agonising, distressing hits that I had ever experienced.
And the torment continued. I begged and implored Clare to stop. I beseeched her to show mercy, but she persisted to smash the painful rod against my skin. “One word,” Victoria called out. “Just one word.”
But it never came. I never uttered my safeword as Clare peppered my backside with painful strikes. Every hit yielded more explosions of intense agony on my scarlet flesh.
“Perfect,” Victoria called, and the sadist unfastened my hands. I rubbed my blistered arse, and the millionaire slapped them away. “Nicely done, Clare.”
“That really hurt.”
“It was supposed to,” Victoria spat in my ear. “Now go tidy your summerhouse. We’re going to use our paddles, canes and strapons on Stephen, but you are welcome to stay if you want more punishment.” I shook my head. “I want to see Stephen blubber, as that has always made my pussy tingle. We will show him no mercy!”
* * * * *
On Wednesday, my work was interrupted by Martin and Stephen cramming themselves in the little room above the summerhouse. As I tried to ascertain the bugs in my code, the excited voices of the two married men permeated my thought process.
“Victoria wants to know if you and Clare are coming tonight,” Martin told me as I put my wireless headphones on the small desk. “She’s text Clare, but there is no answer.”
“Where are you off to?”
Stephen blushed. “It’s a gender-bending Vicars and Tarts Party at the Sex Club.”
“So you are two are going as tarts? And Victoria is a vicar?”
Stephen beamed. “Yeah.”
“I think we’ll pass. Unless Clare wants to go.” I rang my fiancée, but her phone was turned off, and I watched the cuckolded husbands change into their attire.
Martin was a pretty unconvincing schoolgirl. The burgundy tartan skirt was way too short to be decent, and he flashed his skimpy lingerie that strained against his recently reattached cock cage.
Stephen had a soft face, and he scrubbed up well as Harley Quinn; he had everything: the blonde wig in pigtails, the choker, the tight crop top shirt, skimpy shorts, fake tattoos and torn fishnet stockings. The garish makeup completed the outfit, and I felt almost aroused at the sight.
Clare was late home, having been in board meetings all afternoon, and was tired; we snuggled up to watch a film together. The movie about the life of the Marquis de Sade was fantastically funny, and I just enjoyed spending time with my partner.
I spent the night alone in the summerhouse. Clare and I both had early starts, and when Victoria and Charlotte returned from their club, they continued their sordid games in the dungeon. It was weird and lonely sleeping without a partner, and the cool lodge felt unwelcoming when I fell asleep.
Martin and Stephen came after breakfast, and they showed me the lesions and welts caused by their vicious partners. Martin’s thighs, butt and upper back were crimson with deep lacerations, while Stephen’s skin was a streaked purple. It was a discipline that went beyond what I could tolerate.
Early morning conference aside, I had a calm and peaceful day. I was able to concentrate on my work as the multi-millionaire and his friend travelled to the sauna to explore the gloryholes. The venue was a particular favourite of the Londoner, and Martin was keen to satisfy his urges.
After tea, the six of us settled in the lounge with our drinks. The crackling gas fire warmed the room, and the three men sat on the floor as the women spread out on the couch and armchairs.
“Charlotte,” Victoria asked. “When was the last time Stephen squirted his little thing?”
The Londoner. “Ten days ago. He had a prostate massage. Why, do you ask?”
She looked at Stephen with raised eyebrows. “No cummies at the sauna?”
“No, Victoria.”
“OK. Martin and Jon, if you can make Stephen come in the thirty minutes without touching his butt, his cock or using any toys, then we’ll have an evening in the hot-tub. If you fail, I’ll take all of you down to my dungeon.”
“But he has a cage on,” I moaned, pointing to the metal frame around his dick.
“Another obstacle. You are not to touch his pee-pee or his poo-poo,” she teased. “But if you don’t want the challenge, I’ll just take you all down now. I have a new cane and I liked it last night. I could use it a little more.”
“That does sound fun,” Clare added, smirking at my horrified face. “I saw the marks on them all. Was there a lot of screaming when you came back?”
“Lots,” Victoria replied. “It was great fun!”
How was Martin and I supposed to extract an orgasm from a chaste man without using his prostate? The women cackled and emptied the remaining wine from the bottle into their glasses as Stephen shuffled across the carpet to where Martin and I sat.
“I… I need butt play,” he muttered.
“OK,” I hummed. “Let’s try this.” Stephen was slight and thin, and I pulled him backwards, so he landed on top of me. My hands rolled his nipples between my thumb and forefinger as my lips whispered in his ear. “Suck his balls,” I demanded of Martin.
Stephen rested his head on my shoulder. Victoria’s husband laid on the floor and pushed his face into the crotch of the slender cuckold. He smelt and felt feminine in my arms. His skinny, lithesome frame and use of female toiletries misled my senses.
This was no nubile, lissome beauty that I had been told to massage. The person was not a dainty woman but an effeminate husband, that Martin and I were trying to spur into a squealing climax.
Like Martin had once done. One morning, my host he had forced my dick to squirt by sucking on my testicles, and I hoped the soft rolling of his nipples between my fingers, as well as Martin’s warm, wet tongue, would take him over the edge.
He bit his lip and sighed I blew softly against his skin, and kissed his neck; he squealed as we tried to sensually stimulate the submissive. Gentle groans as Martin and I made progress.
He squirmed in my hands; he grunted and snorted as Martin’s tongue probed the smooth contours of his abused balls and I softly rubbed his erect nipples. He writhed under our touch; my firm cock dug into his back as he twisted his hips and rocked his body.
He blew as he exhaled, swearing loudly my lips kissed the nape of his neck and I gently nibbled at his skin with my teeth. He wriggled against me. Stephen panted, groaned and his cage jerked, before a slither of white cum trickled from his imprisoned cock. Victoria snickered and rose from her seat with her empty wine glass.
“Twelve minutes,” Victoria called as she knelt beside the three of us. She grabbed her husband by the back of the neck and pushed his face into the globules of thick, white liquid dribbling down his cock. “OK, a bet’s a bet,” she added, and the elegant woman opened the sideboard, and took out three black bags. “This is yours,” she said as she threw the bag to me.
Martin caught the next package. “Is this…?” He muttered.
“Yes, dirty cucks should wear costumes in my hot-tub,” she called and Stephen received the final black carton.
Inside my bag, Victoria had placed a deep yellow metallic leotard. I felt subconscious as I slipped my feet through the holes and the women giggled mercilessly as we changed into our female swimming attire.
The outfit Martin received was considerably more embarrassing. The neon pink bikini looked ridiculous on him, as he was without a suitable bosom to fill the top half. The skimpy bottom bulged around his reattached chastity cage, but he simply grinned as he posed in front of his wife and guests. Stephen’s side-tie leopard-print G-String never even caused him to blush. Even when his wife gathered us together to take a photograph that she sent to her friends, Stephen beamed broadly.
He adored the power play dynamics and the domination, with the disdain, ridicule and contemptuous derision shown by our female partners feeding his lust and not his embarrassment.
He could feel no shame. “Go ahead. There are worse pictures of me on the net,” he casually said, when Victoria threatened to upload it to a public gallery.
I didn’t doubt it for a second.
* * * * *
I used my Friday day-off to surprise Clare. I got Martin to drive me to the station after helping him clean the house and arrived at my fiancee’s office at just before lunchtime with a giant bouquet and a box of twelve doughnuts gourmet for her colleagues.
She beamed when she saw me and introduced me to the eight members of the remote learning company’s Manchester office. “Can I take you to lunch?” I asked.
“I have a call in ten minutes until one thirty. You wait until then,” Clare demanded. “Oh, go help Nick and Kat. Their computers have been playing up this week and we can’t get anywhere from Tech Support.”
Nick was a middle-aged and balding man with a golfing jumper, and Kat was a young woman, fresh from college. Their computer issues were simple, and easily fixed, and Clare smiled as I sat with them, drinking tea and pointing at the computers.
“What’s she like as a boss?” I asked as the two employees selected doughnuts from the tray. “Crack the whip much?”
“She’s going to be our boss when Marie retires,” Nick replied. “But Marie is still here part time. We don’t know Clare very well. But she’s different.” He glanced away and Kat smirked. He left for lunch a few minutes later, and the office junior shuffled her seat over to me.
“What did Clare do to him?” I asked the young woman.
“He made a comment about her clothing once. She had stockings on, and a summer dress. I’m sure you know what outfit I’m talking about. It’s a little short but not obscene or owt. She tore his balls off about objectifying women. The next day was Dress Down Friday, and she came into the office in tight black leather skirt, fishnets and he didn’t know where to look. She ripped into him over his nudey calendar too, and his filthy mug. We’d complained about his soft porn at work to Marie, and she let it go, but Clare was having none of it. I’d love to have her confidence. She just massacres people, and she always looks so classy. She’s 100% in control all the time.”
We looked across the office and through the glass at Clare pacing around the meeting room, barking into the conference call telephone. “Yeah, she is,” I said.
Clare came out of the call twenty minutes later, as her colleague and I were chatting amicably. “Kat, United Health Yorkshire wants to take a look at the mental health modules for all their staff. They’ll get it free for the year to make up for the debacle with their billing, but from January it will need adding to their payment unless they cancel. Enable it on the system, please. And tell Nick that I want that update from Buxton on my desk when I get back from lunch.” She grabbed her bag from her chair and slung her tailored coat over her shoulder. “And Kat, excellent work on Williams’ Brothers. That’s a nice deal you’ve closed there. Fifth new client you’ve snared this week, I believe. Cracking!” Kat beamed, and Clare chuckled at her. “Any more and I’d think you were after my job!” She tapped me on the forearm. “Come on then, take me to lunch. I’ve not got all day.”
“See ya, Kat,” I muttered, and put my dirty tea cup in their tiny kitchen. Clare’s office was close to a highly rated Chinese restaurant and as Cantonese cuisine was her favourite dish, I took my fiancee to the immaculate scarlet-and-gold eaterie.
We looked and acted like any other couple. When I visited the toilet, the other diners were not to know I removed my underwear, and I passed them to Clare under the table. Cuckolds were not allowed boxers, apparently, and she teased me as the thin shorts rubbed against my cock.
I paid the bill and walked with her back to her office. We embraced in the lobby; she pushed her body against mine and pressed me against the wall. “We could get a hotel room,” I breathlessly said to her. She kissed my neck and whispered into my ear.
“Yeah, OK. If you know any of my bulls on quick dial.”
“We could… y’know?”
“Jon, it’s not your birthday and I have work to do. Now if you do want something to do, go to the barbers and get your hair cut. It looks a mess. And make sure there is a lovely bottle of chilled sparkling rose wine waiting for me when I get home.”
She smiled, tapped me on the nose, and turned. “See ya later, love,” I called after her.
“See ya. Be good. Or else. And thanks for the flowers. And the doughnuts.”
And I was left to do the jobs that my hotwife had commanded me to. Like a well-behaved cuck.
* * * * *
I spent the week teasing Bobby by text message about joining us on Saturday for one of the last after-match parties. I suggested that visiting the summerhouse after a football game would give him plenty of oral action without the cost of playing at the sauna.
Eventually, he relented when his other half was offered a babysitting job for the weekend. A couple, whose child she looked after at the childcare centre, were attending a wedding and didn’t want to take two overexcited toddlers. When their regular sitter fell ill, they asked the nursery if Heather, the youngest child’s favoured nurse, would be available.
Heather, delighted at the overtime, agreed and this left her partner at a loose end for the afternoon and evening. I called it fate, he called it horniness. Either way, at a little after midday, Martin and I were joined by two more bisexual harlots.
Stephen was a wiry, youthful man who worked with his father as an accountant. He was no taller than 5ft7in tall, and had a quiet, relaxed demeanour about him. Mostly, however, he was a humiliation junkie, a pee drinker, a chastity cage lover and an anal addict. Any person, male or female, who degraded, debased or embarrassed him, would sate his lust. Add in deep, passionate buggery and Victoria’s old school friend was in slutty heaven.
We made the ladies lunch as they lounged beside the bubbling hot-tub in translucent sarongs. Martin told me that Charlotte had a steady boyfriend in London, alongside her chaste husband, but when she visited Victoria, it was generally accepted that she was allowed to roam. Essentially, what went on in Cheshire stayed in Cheshire.
Stephen was given a shiny pink pair of frilly bloomers that looked ridiculous on him. His cheeks reddened, and he smiled. Martin wore the same garment, but in blue.
Bobby and I were provided with skimpy black jockstraps to wear by the lady of the house. Charlotte photographed her husband and Martin together, and she giggled as her phone pinged. “Ah, Susie says you look cute. Eva wants to spank you. And Niamh reckons she thinks you need a dummy.”
“Now that’s an idea,” Victoria teased. “But then, how could he suck cock?”
By half-two, Martin and I had shown our pair of summerhouse virgins where everything in the room was kept. We had been warned that there would be plenty of visitors, and the floor-to-ceiling fridge was full of alcohol.
The rumbling of an engine stopped directly behind the wooden structure, and I heard the Coach’s voice first. “Luis, Jordan, Stan, Jamie and Charlie. Go get yourselves some married cunt.”
I stepped into the cool afternoon air, shivering as thirty men piled from the minibus. It must have been well over its legal capacity. “Afternoon Scott, this is Bobby and Stephen. Afternoon Ryan, this is Bobby and Stephen.” And so on.
Twenty-three times, I welcomed dominant men into Martin’s abode. Coaches, assistants and players. Black, white and mixed-race. Enviously athletic and overweight. Eighteen-year-old teenager to forty-five-year-old defensive coach. The variety of masculinity was breathtaking and Bobby looked on, spellbound and open-mouthed.
“Oh, and I got two goals, Wes and Nathaniel grabbed one a piece too,” Scott called out as he slouched on the settee in his tracksuit. “And get some tits and pussy on the screen, Martin. This is fucking awful service. I’ve a good mind to take my cock and balls elsewhere.”
Martin raised his eyebrows at me. “We’re just sorting it for you,” the host replied as I tapped away at the media centre in the corner of the room. “Does Mr Kendall, with his amazingly stout dick, and his delicious testicles, loaded with thick, virile, juicy cum, want a cider?”
The brash winger snorted. “Yeah, him, his enormous cock and his weighty balls fucking do.”
“And a beer, fag.”
“Make that two beers, cuck.”
“A whisky for me, sissy.”
“A lager, cocksucker,”
Even Martin looked a little overwhelmed at the number of orders and abusive names being shouted at him. I started a porn video of a big-breasted woman at a gangbang, and slipped into the small kitchen, crowded with four bodies, to help the genial host. The food needed to go in the oven; we had two dozen drinks to prepare.
In the first ten minutes, Bobby had his mouth around Cameron’s diminutive prick, Martin was spanked by Nathaniel and Stephen was given a glass of piss by Wes to down. He gulped his acrid, amber drink with a huge smile on his face.
The wild, febrile atmosphere calmed when the Premier League match, featuring Manchester United, started, and the dominant men watched it. We waited on them as they finished their drinks and my message to Scott, earlier in the day, about Bobby being a “truly excellent and enthusiastic cocksucker” had clearly been communicated by him to his team. Everyone wanted a bit of Bobby’s mouth.
He obliged. Willingly.
Every man who demanded it and pushed their navy tracksuits to their ankles was treated to a sensual blowjob. His mouth wrapped around the gleaming head, and gentle, gradual sucks brought the prick to a full erection.
Then he bobbed; his tongue swirling over the head as his lips bounced over the cock to draw a toe-curling, grunting orgasm from the lucky man.
Each time he finished fellating a footballer, another would summon him, and then another. He was a blowjob machine, and his broad smile as every man covered his throat or his face in cum was infectious.
He was in heaven. It was his pipedream. If he could design a world from his fantasies, the very definition of his utopia, it would consist of a dozen alpha guys demanding luscious fellatio.
He was a cocksucking obsessive; every lick of another man’s prick was a delicious enjoyment for him. He dreamt of going down on cocks, and he savoured every dick his lips had ever given pleasure to.
Stephen, too, was in his own personal nirvana. Once the teasing comments about his bloomers had finished, the nineteen-year-old younger brother of Ryan and Cameron, Tom, pulled the silky pink frilly underwear to the married man’s ankles. He had only joined the team a few months ago and not seen a cock cage before. “What the fuck is that?” He pointed at the metal prison around Stephen’s prick.
“It’s a chastity device,” his elder sibling called. “It means he can’t get a boner. Or screw.”
“No bird is gonna want to fuck ‘im anyway,” the nineteen-year-old replied as he gently stroked his teenage cock. “Look at the size of it. It’s fuckin’ tiny!” He snorted as Stephen stared longingly at his manhood. The laughter from the footballers was cruel and humiliating. But Stephen loved every snigger and every giggle. “Does anyone ever touch it?” Tom asked.
“No, Sir.” Stephen muttered.
“When was the last time you got laid?”
“Four hundred and twenty-two days ago, Sir. My wedding night, Sir.”
Tom’s eyes widened. “Holy shitting fuck.”
“My wife wants me to go five years, although I do get releases through anally induced ejaculation, Sir.”
“You mean, by being a batty boy?”
“Prostate massage, strapon pegging and my faggotry, Sir.” His eyes widened as Stephen turned. “You see, I have lubricated my hole and stretched it with a large plug before you came, Sir.”
Stephen’s demurring candour stunned Tom; the cocky, arrogant midfielder rose from his seat as his team mates watched. “Fuck ‘im, Young Tom. Fuck ‘im good!” His brother called in encouragement.
The nineteen-year-old grabbed Stephen by the back of the neck and threw him over an empty puffy. The cuckold stumbled as his pink frilly panties got caught between his ankles, but he landed with a thud over the soft seat with his arse in the air.
He grunted as Tom rolled a condom over his prick and landed on top of him, using his body weight and muscles to drive his covered cock into the squealing submissive.
Men took in turns to plunder his hole; Stephen was in a dreamland: shamelessly used as the alpha men degraded and disgraced him. His locked dick leaked as his they rammed past his prostate, leaving him a panting, filthy mess.
His Promised Land; his own Eden.
Martin was truly hospitable; he waited on everyone with a deferential air and beaming smile. He wanted every visitor to be satisfied, and he gleefully served food and drink that he had purchased to the dominant men.
As for me, I found my nose in Isaac’s fuzz as his cock tickled the back of my throat and Ben’s dick stroked my special spot. I was used and then discarded as the spent players returned to their drinks and the football.
During the first half, I cooked pizzas and nibbles, and I waited on the victorious footballers as Martin was rammed against the arm of an armchair.
After half-time, the overweight goalkeeping coach gestured for Bobby as he scoffed pizza, and pushed him onto his knees. Bobby’s eyes met mine as the beefy, stocky man opened his thighs, expectantly.
Watching my friend impale his mouth onto Wayne’s dick was an erotic sight. His expression screamed with excitement, as he acted as if the thick, stout cock from the oversized man was all he had ever wanted.
The cocksucker bestowed passionate worship on that stubby meat, squealing as he meticulously lavished slow, drawn out licks along the shaft, and wrapped his tongue over the sensile mushroom tip. Wayne ground his hips into the armchair, downing his beer as Bobby drove him closer to orgasm.
The space was thick with lust. The delicious aromas of male sexual release, the guttural sounds of buggery and blowjobs, the sights of the wanton debauchery and lewd behaviour, filled the room. Assistant coach, Xavier, saw me ogling Bobby’s performance, and tugged at my arm.
Ten seconds later, he had bent me over a puffy and had thrusted his prick into me, sliding against my prostate. “Brittany says no anal,” he told me, referring to his girlfriend. “But you never say no.”
Saying “no” was not in my vocabulary at these events. I existed to be used, and I was available to all the alpha men. Not that I wanted to decline the tattooed man’s muscular body pounding his chunky cock into my well-taken hole. Thick enough to give my butt a satisfying full sensation that swelled my lust.
I felt another person land on the puffy next to me and smiled at Bobby’s gasping face. Late middle-aged reserve midfielder Phil, with his retreating hairline, chunky muscles and long, thin prick had thrown my friend onto the wide puffy and had lined up his fettered cock at my friend’s open hole.
I squeezed Bobby’s hand as he panted, groaning as the lengthy spear slammed past his resistance. Phil hammered and battered his dick into the young man’s hole with fierce, powerful thrusts. Bobby squealed; there was no respite from the fucking machine old enough to be his Dad.
The ex-semi-professional player may have been the wrong side of forty, but he had the energy of a teenager and devoured Bobby’s invitation with glee and gusto.
In my intimate sanctuary, Connor, and then Billy, replaced Xavier. Each time, I felt the cock pulse followed by a satisfied, relieved groan. Bobby had returned to oral duty on cocky Ricky’s prick, and I dolled out more drinks.
Stephen’s butt never stopped being used; the players formed a queue behind him to bury their dicks into his feminine body and lubricated hole. Wes and his freakishly large prick, Paolo and his impressive physique and cappuccino skin, American’s Stan and Parker, with their inked bodies and Isaac with his thick, circumcised prick that stretched and satisfied any open hole. They waited, they fucked, they left.
Stephen was a free-to-use butt, Bobby was a blowjob purveyor, and I was a drinks provider. It was mechanical and so horny.
When the full-time whistle went, our guests were exhausted. They’d all blown their load at least once. The horny footballers had left Stephen as a sweaty, disgusting mess, Bobby covered in drying cum, and full condoms littered the summerhouse for us to clean.
“Thanks, fags,” Ricky called as he left, grinning at the state of the room. “See ya next week.”
“Maybe, Sir, would be given access to pussy next time,” Stephen replied.
“Ahh, that was the best blowie I’ve had for months,” he said and pointed to Bobby. “It’s like he wants to do it, rather than he has to!”
“I do want to do it,” Bobby said, with streaks of cum in his hair and on his skin. “I don’t know why anyone doesn’t.”
“Yeah, see ya boys,” Scott called out as he sauntered out of the summerhouse.
As the last player boarded the minibus, Charlotte summoned Martin and Stephen to the hot-tub. I heard cheering and laughter as I collected the used plates and beakers. “So, what do you think to Saturday Afternoon Football?” I asked Bobby.
“It’s good, really good,” he replied. “Great fun. My butt is sore now. A couple of them really pounded me. But it’s the same problem, I have at the sauna. So many straight guys pull out as they spill their load. They don’t get it, that their cum is part of the deal. Several of the guys tonight, jizzed over my face, or in my hair, or down my chest, and I’d rather have that on my tongue!” He chuckled and passed me a handful of stacked plates as we mopped the floor and tidied the cabin.
“I know. Have a quick shower if you want, while I wash up.”
He grunted, thanked me and slipped into the bathroom. He returned a few minutes later with a towel wrapped around him. I had cleaned the kitchenette, and I felt his body come behind me. His hands touched my waist, and he pulled me gently into him. “That’s a cute butt you have!”
“Offer is always open,” I said. “You top wonderfully.”
“I don’t really,” he muttered.
“You top me wonderfully, then!” I replied and turned to face him. We smiled at each other and our eyes met. We went to kiss when Stephen’s voice interrupted.
Naked, except for an adult nappy, he coughed. “The ladies have said you two can join them in the hot-tub now.” Bobby chortled and nodded.
“Come on,” he called and held out his hand for me to take. “Let’s meet your betrothed. I’ve heard enough about her.” I introduced Clare to Bobby; the women were in the eight-person hot tub and she smiled as we walked up to the covered verandah with broad smiles.
“Get in,” she offered to my cocksucking friend and hummed as she looked at me. “Go on, then, Jon. You too.” Victoria allowed Martin into the bubbling whirlpool, while she dispatched Stephen, in his humiliating wear, to fetch drinks and tidy up from their tryst with the powerful footballers. I spied dozens of used condoms and the submissive husband happily cleaned the fruits of his wife’s infidelity from the outdoor area.
Bobby sat close to me, and our hands wandered in the bubbles. His palm stroked my smooth leg under the water as we drank our alcoholic drinks. Clare and Victoria teased us: “There were lots of men in the summerhouse, did you have a really good time?”
Martin nodded. “Yes, Bobby and Stephen were very popular! They had queues.”
“Oh Bobby,” Clare cooed. “Tell me about yourself.” The warehouse worker blushed and mumbled. My partner stood up in the jacuzzi and sat between myself and my friend, wiggling her naked bum until we shuffled and gave her room. “You a cuck or a fag?” She asked as she took a swig from her cocktail.
“Or neither,” I replied. My fiancée glared at me and tapped me on the lips.
“I’m sort of very secretly bi,” he admitted. “But my girlfriend isn’t into other men. And I don’t touch other women. That’s… not for us.”
“You in the closet, still?”
He blushed and nodded. I squeezed Clare’s thigh under the water, and she took the hint. “It’s lovely to meet you. I must ask, has any of the cucks finished you off, today?” He hesitated and shook his head. Clare patted me on the shoulder. “Job for you. You cannot invite guests over and not treat them right.” Clare shrugged at Victoria. “I personally think we need to teach our boys a lesson later. We had six men in here, didn’t we, Charlotte? Every single one shot their bolt! Multiple times. The cucks have visitors that helped them and then let them stay horny. That’s not fair, is it?”
“No, it isn’t,” Charlotte replied and downed her drink. She held it out to her partner. “Refill, bitch!”
“Bobby dear,” Clare replied. “Do you want my fiance’s mouth or his butt?”
Bobby giggled. “I’m… I mean I wasn’t expecting… I… I quite like blowjobs, but I didn’t expect to get any tonight. We could do a mutual thing if…”
Clare squealed. “Nonsense. Absolute nonsense. Jon, get your lips around this magnificent specimen of bisexual manhood.”
Bobby pushed his body up and seated himself on the edge of the hot-tub, I knelt on the seat in the water and looked at him the eyes as I extended my tongue and gave his semi-erect cock a long, luscious lick. Slow, gentle movement across the length of his shaft.
My gaze transfixed on his face as I swirled my mouth around my friend’s stiffening glans. He groaned, and closed his eyes, exhaling sharply as I rubbed his sensitive spot.
I deftly moved further and further along his erect shaft. “That’s good,” he muttered. He gulped as I took all of his stiffness into my mouth and my finger pressed against his perineum.
This meant more than any other blowjob I had given that day. I liked Bobby and giving him pleasure was more satisfying and intimate than a random prick from the football club.
We had a good rhythm: long, luscious strokes of his dick with my lips, followed by a few swirls of his sensitive head with my tongue. I could taste his horniness and feel his lust boiling inside him. Ready to release.
He gasped, and his cock pulsed. I sucked the tip of his twitching prick, and he ran his hands through my hair as he squirted several surges of his viscous, musky juices into my throat. He looked at me, smiling with his dick on my tongue, and grinned. “Thanks,” he muttered. “I better do you now.”
“Cucks do not get blowjobs, except from other cucks,” Clare cried. “House Rules. And as you are not a cuck, have another beer.”
“I’m driving,” he replied. “I can’t drink any more or I’ll be over the limit.” Clare went to speak, as he slipped back into the water. “But thank you for the offer.”
Stephen prepared burgers for tea with Martin’s help, and we sat in the dining room laughing, drinking and chatting. Bobby relaxed, and Clare kept giving us a weird look as I spoke in conversation with my friend.
By early evening, he needed to leave and thanked Victoria for her hospitality. “Good meeting you all,” he said, as he got up from the table. Martin took a large bottle of champagne from his wine cellar and held it out to Bobby. “Here, Jon said that you often buy your other half a bottle if you’ve been out having fun.” My friend met my eyes and Martin added. “You can say you had a game of poker and won that.”
“I… well… that’s…”
“It’s a hundred quid a bottle. It’s nothing special, but it’s a decent drop. That way you don’t need to feel guilty.”
Bobby took the offered wine and muttered thanks. I walked with him to the summerhouse and then his car, parked in the track at the rear of the wooden lodge. “I didn’t know that Martin would do that,” I said. “And I…”
“It’s fine,” the young warehouse worker interrupted. “And thanks. It’s good fun here. I’d love to come again.” He bit his lip and put the bottle of champagne on the gravel beside his car. He pressed his body against mine, and he gave me a pat on the back. “Thanks.”
“You may give amazing oral but my butt still wants you to fuck it!” I told him, and he briefly kissed me on the lips, before he got into his car, with his bottle of fizz, and drove off towards Stockport.
Clare smiled at me from the garden. “You really like him, don’t you?” She said as I walked back to her.
“Very much so.”
“More than me?” She pouted.
“Never,” I replied.
“You kiss him.”
“You kiss every guy who fucks you.” I raised my eyebrow at her. “He fucks me.”
“But …”
“OK, I really like him. You have your favourites too.”
“Yeah, I know.” She giggled. “You don’t need to get defensive. It’s rather sweet, actually. You two make a lovely couple. I’d love to see you screw each other. I bet it’s really romantic and intimate. When Benji and Scott and all the other guys fuck you is passion and power, but if Bobby did it, it would be like a Mills and Boon novel.”
I rolled my eyes, and I escorted my fiancée to her bedroom to give her a handful of orgasms through my fingers and my tongue, and then she wore my favourite strapon to pound my backside until my cock squirted over my chest.
We’d just had amazing, fantastic climaxes from incredible sex, and my manhood was most unneeded. As usual.
* * * * *
Stephen and Charlotte waved goodbye to our hosts the following morning. Stephen was dressed in a fishnet stockings, a short skirt and a crop top by the dominant women and they giggled as he struggled with the bags to the hatchback.
Victoria embraced him, kissed him on the cheek and spanked him on his bum, before he left her abode. “Come back soon,” she shouted as their car drove down the driveway and she gave us a broad smile as she sat down on the verandah.
Scott and Virginia visited after lunch; they had taken a bike ride through the country lanes and had stopped off at the summerhouse to scrounge a drink in the tepid spring sunshine.
One beer quickly became two and then three, and the chatter turned bawdy and ribald as we moved into the hot-tub. “We’ve not seen Sean and Amy for a while. Are they still OK?” Clare asked.
Victoria nodded. “Yeah.” She raised her glass at her husband with a wide smile on her face. “Little slut sent me a text yesterday. She got herself pregnant.”
“Oh.”
“And it ain’t Sean’s kiddy. The guy’s dick hasn’t seen any pussy for six months and he just fires blanks, anyway.”
“How’s he taken it?”
“He’s over the moon. He’s always wanted kids, but they’ve shelved their sex life for a bit. His family don’t know and they will get a shock when the baby’s born.”
“Oh, is it… a different… y’know?”
“Oh yes! She went to a birthday party of a friend of a friend in Manchester, and it was black dudes who fucked her. A lot of them. So she’s pretty certain she isn’t going to be able to suggest it’s Sean’s. Not that she would. She tells the world that her partner is useless in bed and is as virile as a eunuch, so she has to get satisfied elsewhere, but he’s not quite so keen on that being so public. Surprisingly.”
Clare looked at me. “If I got knocked up by Wes, would that be an issue? For you or your family?”
I hummed in thought. “My mum wouldn’t care, as long as she could be a nanna. My dad wouldn’t understand but he’d accept it. My grandparents would disown me. She still calls the convenience store down the end of their road a ‘paki shop’ despite being told so many times not to.”
“And you?” Victoria asked. “Could you raise another man’s baby?”
“Of course. I love Clare. Anything Clare does is OK with me.” My partner gulped as I spoke and put her hand in mine. “If we had kids, I’d prefer it to be mine, but I’m not precious about it. And there is something really hot about your partner being knocked up by someone else. I know that being a daddy and being a father can be two different people as it’s two different roles, and if we ever have kids, I will be the daddy to them, no matter who dumped their cum in Clare.”
“Yeah, they are two different roles,” Victoria muttered.
As the conversation lulled, I looked at the empty glasses. “Who wants another drink?” I said, as I clambered out of the hot-tub.
“Oh,” Scott called. “I got something for you. To say thanks for getting me the bike, and I want you to wear it for me.” He gestured at his small navy backpack and he smirked as the naked man jumped out of the jacuzzi and opened his bag with his wet hands. He tossed a white garment to me and I unfolded it.
Scott roared with laughter as I put the “I love cock” T-shirt over my head with a giant purple aubergine emoji. “It’s so you!” Virginia added, and Clare rubbed the back of my arm.
“It’s OK, love. I know you like a bit of cunt too! We’ll get you some lacy briefs that say that to balance out the message!”
“OK, I’ll give you a hand with the booze,” Scott added and looked up from the cocktail bar. “There’re only spirits here. I’ll grab a load from the summerhouse. Is that OK?”
Martin nodded, and Scott bounded down the garden, as naked as the day he was born. I was about to speak when a loud smash from the road at the front of the mansion broke the silence.
Martin and I looked at each other, and we ran across the garden to the side of the house and out of the gate, onto the driveway.
A lorry was parked, or abandoned, at the front of the neighbouring house and I could just see a large, tattooed gentleman striding up their drive through the six-foot hedge.
“Call the Police,” I called. “It’s Virginia’s ex,” I said confidently. “Maybe.”
The crash of a hammer smashing against the wooden front door made us both jump. “Where the fuck is she?” He roared. The large, brutish man left my field of vision, as Martin and I stumbled through the hedge to reach the unwelcome intruder.
