A Village Surprise

I recently wrote a story called "The Surprise" - a non-consensual story with a twist. I deliberately picked a vague title, and so I will try and write a different tale under each of Literotica's twenty-five writing categories with the same inspiration over the next year. This is Number Seven.

******

My wife wasn't wrong to leave me; I was bisexual, and she wanted monogamy. While I adored her figure, with her perky breasts and amazing butt, I also needed to play with my gender. During a sales visit to London, I attended a gay bar with a public playroom, and sucked on my first cock. That experience opened my eyes, and for three years, I maintained my marriage as I sought male sex partners for anal and oral sex. My world tumbled down when she discovered my FabGuys and Grindr accounts, and the truth came out.

We agreed to split amicably, which was far more than I deserved, and she took ownership of our six-bedroom abode. I had an excellent job in our family firm and settled into a four-bedroom detached house in a small village in east Cheshire. Close to the motorway, railway station and with splendid views of the countryside, my cul-de-sac property was an ideal home for me to rebuild my life.

As a thirty-five-year-old, I wanted sexually available men and women of a similar age, and there were little of those in the surrounding area. However, I still travelled to Manchester, Stockport or Chester for dates, and the scenery around my village was fantastic. I lived close to work, and could drive to our Mancunian factory three days a week, and work from my home office on the other two.

Six months after moving into my new property, I had the bushes and shrubs removed from my front garden and replaced them with small low-maintenance plants; I was never much of a gardener and the five trees had roots that were encroaching on the sewers. My neighbour complained.

A month later, I changed the three-foot high fence in the back garden with bigger replacements, and planted conifers in front of them. I wanted my privacy, and my neighbour whinged.

During Pride Month, I flew the horizontal striped flag from my upstairs window. My neighbour protested and as chair of our local parish council, he officially wrote to me to advise that "perversions should not be advertised where children could see them."

I ignored his pathetic baiting, but more and more I felt I didn't fit in to the village life. There were cliques, clubs and societies that were not welcoming to new members. I needed a more cosmopolitan environment. A few Tinder and Grindr dates, with the inevitable culmination of the rendezvous in the bedroom for a one-night stand, couldn't sate my wanderlust. I wanted more and looked at a few houses available on the property market nearer to the city centre.

Towards the end of the summer, a guy who I'd met a few times from FabGuys contacted me. Twenty miles away, in a small town in Cheshire, was the country's biggest all-male sauna, and they were hosting an infamous sex party. He had two tickets and his friend had dropped out. Did I want the spare ticket?

The Horse Fair is a simple but sordid concept. It is an orgy and attendees purchase entry for one of the three roles. Firstly, the "stable lads" guarantee the safety of the participants by ensuring everyone uses condoms and lube. They are also responsible for directing the play and arrive at the party first. The "mares" are guys who like to bottom. The stable lads hood them, strip them naked and restrain them. Lastly, the "stallions" are men who top, and they enter the party to sodomise and use the mares. Anonymously. The event is pure sleaze, and it sounded wonderful.

Simon's spare was for a mare.

Feeling lonely and a little isolated with my life, I leapt at the chance, and met Simon in a layby. I traded one ticket for the forthcoming event for £20 - the face value - and a blowjob. His smooth cock slipped effortlessly between my lips as my tongue worked his glans. The 40-something avid cyclist owned a juice bar and his cum was the sweetest, tangiest delicacy in the county; I always adored going down on the health freak.

The following months were busy at the family firm, and the Horse Fair slipped from my thoughts. Previous trips and parties where I could explore or enjoy my sexuality had preyed on my mind for weeks leading to the event, but with new orders flying into our company, I immersed myself in my work.

I had a busy Friday in mid October, but arrived home at 4pm. Excited, I douched and plugged my arse, ate at the local pub and then drove across the county to meet Simon in the car park of the all-male sauna. I'd been to the former working men's club before and the vast two-storey building catered for hundreds of men at the same time.

He greeted me in his hoodie and sweatpants. "You're early!" I said. "Stallions aren't allowed in until seven thirty!"

"I've got a mare ticket! Like you!"

"I thought of you as more of a stallion than a bottom!"

He laughed. "You've always had me with your lips around my cock, begging me to come in your mouth!" The versatile juice bar owner followed me into the venue, and we swapped our tickets for entry to the vast sauna. We walked to the expansive changing rooms, chatting. Butterflies danced in my stomach; it had been a year since I had attended an orgy, and nothing of this scale.

The rules stated we had to be nude from the waist down and, apart from a pair of plimsolls, I stripped naked. I was not the only guy to have a plug in, and I removed my sex toy, placing it in a bag with my clothes.

Over fifty guys of all shapes and sizes crammed into the changing room, stuffing their garments and possessions into the lockers. A few wore harnesses or tight T-shirts, but most were naked. The atmosphere was jovial and light-hearted; I had my butt squeezed several times by passing attendees as I chatted to my fellow mares.

A railway worker, a schoolteacher, a diversity officer and CEO conversed about geopolitics, football and the state of the roads. The only real thing we had in common was that we were about to be fucked by a stampede of stallions, eager to sate their horniness with our bodies.

A dozen men in sports wear walked to the front of the rowdy, boisterous changing room. A stout, bald-headed man shouted for silence, and then introduced himself before stating the rules once more.

My heart pounded as the reality sunk in. Mares were to be hooded and could not remove their hood for the duration of the event. They were to service all cocks, until nine, when it became a free-for-all orgy until the small hours.

As he spoke, they passed white hoods around the group of men, and at the end of his speech, we had to slip the thin sack over our eyes. A few minutes later, a pair of hands tied it behind my head, fastened my wrists together with zip ties, and then led me into the sauna.

We walked past a room where pornography was playing. I heard the groans and squeals, as well as seeing the brightly coloured light masked through the thin cotton. The softly spoken stable lad guided me up a flight of stairs and told me to "wait here." I felt a table at thigh height and I instinctively rested my palms on it, stretching my calf.

I heard movement. I could taste anxious excitement in my mouth, as there were steps around me. Other mares, certainly.

My watch was in my locker, but I knew we must be approaching seven thirty. I could see nothing but darkness and I closed my eyes, straining my ears to hear anything. Breathing like me. A shuffling of feet. In the far distance, I heard a smack of skin and boots on the floor.

The time had come.

Thumping beats of dance music reverberated around the club. I flinched when I felt the first touch on my body. Hands squeezed my buttocks and pushed on my back, presenting my hole to the dominant stallion.

Suddenly, cool wetness dabbed on my douched opening was followed by a cock pressed against me, filling me up. Smooth and slow, nuzzling his dick against my prostate as his hands rested on my back.

The patient movement delightfully opened me up, finishing the job of my butt plug. I loved every moment. He had rough skin, but was he a fit tradesperson or an experienced, overweight bear? Ginger, blonde, black or bald? Hirsute or glabrous? Tory, Labour or Lib Dem? I could only imagine what person was behind the wondrous dick sensually sodomising me.

It felt too good. He was big, and he thrust powerfully, building a smooth rhythm as he fucked me, harder and harder. The stallion smashed his hand against my exposed skin as he pounded my hole, chasing his pleasure.

I was nothing but a vessel to him; a fleshlight or nameless orifice. A disposable butt for the tops to fuck and use, and then discard. And he did; his cock pulsed in the rubber sheath buried inside my lubricated hole.

The moment he withdrew, another took his place. He couldn't see my face, and I couldn't see him at all. I felt surrounded by men with hands, bodies and dicks pressing and bumping into me. "Hold him down!" The stallion demanded, encouraging his friend to push my shoulders onto the padded table top.

The deprivation of my sight heightened my other senses. Everything excited me, from the touch on my skin and my hole to the smell of lubricant filling the room. The sounds of rough, guttural buggery. The taste of a bare prick stuffed into my mouth whilst his friend roughly sodomised me.

Ferocious, merciless sex; he pounded his cock into me as he slapped my body. My lungs burnt as his mate packed his long dick into my throat, face-fucking me as his fellow stallion hammered my butt. I gasped for air, but could not resist. The barbarous group of men groped me, plundering me for their pleasure as they rotated.

As one man emptied his balls inside a condom, the guy in my throat replaced him, stuffing my arse with their prick. Then, the stallion twisting my nipples or smacking my skin filled my mouth.

No humanity, no emotion. Just half-a-dozen cocks of all sizes, pushing their way into my abused hole and pleasuring themselves with my body. Blindfolded, time had no meaning. My mind simply concerned itself with the continuous orgy surrounding me. I was on my seventh cock of the night, more than doubling my personal record in an evening, and we had barely started.

As the room quietened, a stable lad pulled at my wrists and led me along the corridor and into another area. The pounding beat of the music was louder, and I heard a commotion as I stepped inside. It was a busier part of the event, and within moments, I was on my back in a sling, swaying in midair. A pair of firm hands fastened my ankles to the chains and smothered my arsehole in cold lubricant. His thick, meaty prick forced its way inside me.

Utter bliss. His cock rubbed against my prostate as he fucked me. His hands pulled on my legs, moving me in the swing as he rampantly screwed me. I was just a piece of meat. Nobody said a word or acknowledged me, they used me and went.

I lost track of exact numbers. I was there to be fucked, but it was continuous. As one man finished, the next stallion lined up to take his place within a handful of seconds. The sounds of flesh hitting flesh and of grunting sexual release filled the room, as waves of stallions fucked me, or used another guy in the swings.

And it felt amazing. I was just a worthless slut, eager for cock and savouring every hard, horny thrust into my lubricated hole. I barely caught breath as the stallions didn't hold back, pounding us with rampant lust. Sleazy, wanton, nasty and filthy, and I loved it.

I adored the feel of rough hands groping my body, not needing to ask permission. I longed to have more cocks slide against my prostate or pound my hole, not worrying about sexual consent. They could do what they wanted, and I craved to be used and abused, taken by dominant stallions for their pleasure. But most of all, I savoured the anonymity. My employees, my friends, my ex-teachers or even my neighbour could fuck me and I would not know.

I could not know.

Every prick was anonymous. Each dick that hammered into me was nameless.

The stable lads moved me from the swing to the bed, and then to the wall, with my last fuck being with my hands held above my head as a long, stout shaft sodomised me against the cold wood. I felt his cock pulse as he came, panting into my ear as he unloaded his balls into the condom. "Night, slut!"

The stable lads guided us back to the changing room, and I removed my hood, covering my eyes. "You can go home and the stallions won't see you. Or come to the three-hour orgy." There was a fifteen minute window where the stallions were not permitted to leave the sauna to give the mares time to depart.

For those that savoured the anonymous aspect of the party, they left, and a few did. My hole ached, but I had planned to stay for a drink and some oral fun, but I saw I had five missed calls and one text message on my mobile from my sales manager. This was not a conversation to have in the changing room of a male sauna during a gay orgy, so I thanked Simon for the ticket, dressed, and walked to my executive saloon to return the call. Our biggest customer had contacted us with an urgent order worth several million pounds, and I sat in my vehicle, at the back of the car park, discussing the logistics with him, my brother and our director on a conference call.

We wanted to fulfil their needs to maintain our relationship, and it took an hour to agree for a way forward. As we completed our discussion, and I looked across the splash of tarmac, I noticed a familiar vehicle depart. When I got home, I downloaded the footage from my front and rear dash cams, checking that the navy BMW hatchback, with the name and logo of an estate agency on both wings, was the car I suspected.

My neighbour had attended the Horse Fair.

In the background, on the video, he left the building, crossed the car park, and got into his vehicle before driving away.

I exported a clip that showed him visiting the sauna, as I sat in my lounge, sipping an expensive brandy. Of course, I didn't want to "out" him to his family. I remembered the difficult discussions and humiliation I felt when my wife discovered my bisexuality, as well as the hurt it caused. It was not something I wanted to do, despite his aggression towards me and my sexuality.

For a few weeks, I ignored what I knew. I had several dates on the hookup apps and met a couple of wonderful women and loads of horny, filthy men. I quite enjoyed playing the field, and the pettiness of the married family man adjacent to my property became a minor consideration.

It was after I brought back a young twink after a date that we had our next flash point. The tank top and short denim shorts were a clue to my date's sexuality, as well as the crude message printed on his shirt. He had the biggest prick I had ever seen, and we had hours of sexual ecstasy as he stretched my hole and pounded me relentlessly three times during the night and once in the morning.

Pavel shocked my neighbour when they met in my driveway, and the homophobic parish councillor visited me that evening, "to remind me that the sort of behaviour I exhibit is not suitable for a family-friendly village."

"Come in," I said, opening my front door. "Let's discuss this like adults."

He hesitated, and when I repeated my offer, he followed me into the lounge. It took fifteen seconds for me to link my phone to the television and display the video clip. He watched the screen, aghast, as I explained what I had seen after the Horse Fair at the Sauna. In less than a minute, his expression went from arrogant to anxious.

"How long have you had this?"

"Over a month," I replied.

"And you said nothing?"

"Not my place to discuss your sexuality with anyone."

"But..." He started. He balled his fingers into fists as he stared at the clip, playing once more. "But... this is a decent village and..."

"And you do what I do. Don't you? You're bisexual or gay. This hatred of me is because you're jealous. You want my way of life."

He gulped, and fled my house, slamming his front door on the way out. I heard nothing more from him for two weeks until a handwritten letter on headed notepaper dropped onto my mat.

I was cordially invited to High Farm the following Tuesday at 7:30pm and I should follow the pink arrows on the track.

I dismissed the offer, screwing the note into a ball, and tossed it into a bin. But, my mind wondered. Did my homophobic neighbour wish to murder me in a remote location because I had proof of his homosexual infidelity? Was this so they could discuss the footage without being recorded or overheard? Was this even from my dreadful neighbour? The letter was on paper headed with "The Freedom Society", but I had no idea who they were.

I dropped a message to my favourite gay smoothie maker, explaining the past two months, and sent him a copy of the clip. I was curious about the invitation but didn't want to go without some sort of protection, and if they had nefarious intentions, I wanted someone to explain to the police what likely fate had befallen me.

Our family firm was successful because of the risks my brother and I had taken. We assessed our options and made bold decisions that often paid off. This was another such occasion where I would not take the safe, easy option. My curiosity had piqued.

I checked the map before I left and strode from my cul-de-sac onto the main road and then turned along a narrow country track until I'd walked half-a-mile and reached my destination. I strained my ears as I stepped onto their driveway and public right-of-way. A sign on the wooden fence containing the familiar yellow and black arrow denoted a byway.

After a few hundred metres, the track split, and underneath the council's demarcation for a footpath was a small painted pink arrow, pointing to the fork away from the farm. I used the torch on my phone in the twilight and followed the course between two fields until I reached a metal gate.

On this sign, the weathered pink arrow was to my right, leading towards a barn. I heard noises inside the vast structure and tucked my smartphone in my pocket, stepping onto the track and across the compacted earth to the wide farming construction.

Light emitted through a crack in the door of the windowless property. My heart pounded as I rapped my knuckles on the wooden frame, awaiting a response.

What I didn't expect was an almost naked stout man in his early fifties flinging open the green door and beckoning me in. "Matthew Smart?" He gruffly asked.

"Yeah. I don't know what this is about." He smiled, standing in front of me in calf-high muddy black wellington boots and a dark blue bobble hat. His body was covered in muscles and hair, with his tiny prick buried in his unruly bush.

"We'll explain."

"I'm..."

"Get in," he snapped, as if he was a military sergeant. "I'll freeze my nuts off out here." I stepped inside a flickering small room, created from plasterboard and bathed in harsh LED light. They had clearly divided the barn into separate spaces. Two doors led from the back of the room, and he picked a deep tray from underneath a wooden desk against the wall. "Go in there and put your clothes in the box. Come out of the door at the end. Keep your shoes on."

"But..."

"Don't be a pussy, Matthew." He snarled as he spoke, and bits of spit came from his mouth. I felt uncertain, and I slowly padded through the door marked WC.

Wooden benches on both sides of the narrow twenty foot long room, with a toilet and four shower heads at the end. Open plan and with no privacy.

I pondered running away at that point. For a minute, I sat on the bench, pondering my next course of action, but my addiction to risk drove me forwards. I removed my shirt, followed by shoes, trousers and underwear. I hadn't come out with my wallet, and had just my front door key and my phone in my trouser pocket.