The Summerhouse Ch. 03: Benji

Clare became a borderline nymphomaniac in the weeks that followed the swingers' orgy. Martin and Victoria were regular attendees of the club, but for Clare and I - as a couple - being so involved with that many couples and that much sex was overwhelming. It was far more intense than the Greedy Girls New Year's Eve party, and I had never felt the need to reclaim my partner so desperately as I had done. I wondered if my cuckold angst or worries over my sexuality had bubbled a little too much.

My fiancée revelled in the orgy's aftermath and teased me about the passion I had shown. She believed she had fully inducted me into her world and my partner was eager for repeat excursions to the North West to immerse herself in the seedy environment of the sex club.

She volunteered at work to have more overnight stays in Manchester and formed a close bond with the manager of the Northern office. Many an evening I would be alone in our flat, 300 miles away, and receive a picture message of my partner dressed to go out with Victoria.

Whilst back in Bristol - and after a working weekend in a Welsh hotel with a lot of senior managers - her company asked her to consider relocating to their expanding Manchester location for a few months. Her relationship with the regional manager had blossomed into a highly productive partnership, and the older woman - only a couple of years from retirement age - had asked for my partner to join her. My fiancée was her succession plan.

Clare and I talked about it in an Indian restaurant over a curry. She would not have gone if I had asked her not to, but it was a giant step forward in her career, and the move came with a massive opportunity to savour more sexual adventures. I could not, and did not, refuse. I was almost as excited as Clare, although I tried not to show it.

My colleagues teased me when I announced that I was home-alone all week. This was either a brilliant thing, as it enabled me to have unrivalled access to the games console and Pornhub, or a terrible development as it would cause my relationship to break down, depending on who I was talking to. "She'll be banging guys up there every night, and you'll be two hundred miles away twiddling your nuts. You need to get yourself on Tinder," my fellow software developer told me over a cup of smooth Java. "Make sure you have someone lined up when it all goes south."

The thirty-five-year-old virgin could not have been more right for all the wrong reasons. Within four hours of Clare arriving in the Mancunian office, she had arranged a date with one of Victoria's upper-class neighbours, and another with the same snooty neighbour's "buff gardener." The freedom she had - mentally rather than literally - was a joy to hear about. She came alive in Victoria's sordid mansion and Manchester was a liberation far beyond what I expected.

Clare set me a task at the weekend when she returned to Bristol, after her first full week in Manchester. "I want you to remove all your hair," she demanded as we lay in bed. "I know you liked it when you did it a few months back, but you've let it grow."

"It's too much work," I moaned. She pouted and ran her hands over my unclothed thighs. "My cock is hairless though."

"And your arse isn't. I want every patch of skin below your nose to be bald." She bit my earlobe and whispered. "And if you do that, I might get so turned on, I'll get on my knees for your smooth prick!"

"But ..."

"There is a salon I know who does guys, as she does me. Sienna Parker Waxing in Ashton, near the stadium."

"What's wrong with the stuff I used last time?" I remembered a short-lived arrangement that we had with a very well hung bull, who liked to have the cuckold boyfriend hairless when he watched the "pounding of the slut." The white chemical cream dissolved my hair in minutes and was a painless experience.

"It grew back too quickly," Clare replied.

"But waxing ..."

"Doesn't hurt as much as you think it does." She reached for the paddle at the side of her bed. "Do I need to use my persuader," she asked, tapping her hand with the stout wooden slab. "It's very persuasive and it will hurt a lot."

"No, it's fine," I muttered. "What's the number? I'll make an appointment in the week."

"Wednesday, 6pm. Don't be late," Clare snapped, smiled, kissed me on the cheek and turned over in bed. "I'll leave you the address."

I tried to put the thoughts of hot wax being poured into my crotch and ripped off my skin out of my mind during the week, but I couldn't concentrate on anything else. My brain worked overtime as I expected a truly unpleasant evening. My hands shook on the steering wheel as I drove across the city to the address my dominant partner had scribbled on a piece of pink card with a wallet full of banknotes.

Not only did I expect this experience to be excruciatingly painful but also agonisingly expensive. The compact semi-detached property was at the end of a small cul-de-sac on the council estate that surrounded the stadium. The house was set back from the road and in an immaculate condition. They had paved the garden to provide car parking for three vehicles and I took the last free space, before knocking tentatively on the front door.

My stomach churned; my nerves trembled. A lady, in her early thirties, with fair hair to her breasts, hazel eyes and a beautician's black outfit, answered the door. She beamed and held out her hand. "Jonathan?" I nodded. "Come in. Your partner booked you. Have you been waxed before?"

There was a warmth that eased my concerns with a gentle inflexion in her voice. Deliciously friendly and welcoming. She entered a room that was once a garage and was now a beautician's studio. "Remove your clothes, please," she asked. "And sit on the chair. I'll be back in a minute."

"Everything?" My voice squealed as I spoke, and she smiled.

"I'm good, but I can't wax you through your underpants! Put the towel over you." She left the room, and I sighed, sent Clare a message from my phone, and undressed, before sitting on the massage table-dentist's chair style contraption with the cloth draped over my semi-erect cock.

My prick had betrayed me. I wasn't aroused or excited. Nervous and worried, but not sexually stimulated. Sienna returned, pushing a clattering hostess trolley, and plugged a device into a wall socket. The welcoming beautician picked up a clipboard and sat down next to me.

"Just a few questions," she said, and rattled through a health questionnaire that I had to sign. "First time having all your hair removed, or just first time waxing?"

"Yeah," I admitted. "First time waxing."

She rubbed her hands over my shin. "I can see you've shaved or used cream before. This is a good length for waxing. Do you have any questions?" She asked, and I nodded.

"Does it really hurt?"

She shook her head. "It stings a bit, but no more. We can get started now, this should be nice and hot." She looked back at me. "We'll go slow. You'll get used to it pretty quickly."

I didn't know what to expect when she applied the warm, honey-coloured goo to my shins. Sienna then pushed a fabric gauze over it and then ripped it off with a smooth motion.

I gasped. It didn't hurt, but it wasn't pleasant. The fiery blaze where she had torn the hair from my flesh was briefly painful, but soothed as she put her gloved hand over the reddened skin.

Sienna and I talked; we chatted as she doused my flesh in hot wax and then ripped the hairs from the root. Removing the fur from my legs was uncomfortable, but when Sienna worked on my chest, it was sheer agony. I swore in shock as she tore a giant strip of hair from my torso.

In comparison, eliminating the hair on my arms and back smarted but was not really painful. Finally, she removed the towel and exposed my nakedness. "This is the horrible bit, right?"

"The chest can be more painful. Under the arms, too. This will hurt a bit, but it'll all be over in ten minutes. And we use hot oil on sensitive areas too."

I gulped. "Hot oil? That sounds like a mediaeval torture!"

"Warm oil then." She laughed and put her Latex-covered hand on my wrist. "Has it been terrible, so far?" It hadn't.

And the experience of being waxed "down there" was not as dreadful as I expected. Ripping the hair from my chest was excruciating, but hacking my pubic hair from my crotch merely stung. Within ten minutes, the beautician had fondled my genitals to leave me with an erection, and had torn every hair from my cocks, balls and butt.

I was smooth. Deliciously so. My skin was soft, and Sienna smiled as she watched me stroke my sleek legs. I apologised, paid her, and left her house. I forgot how it felt and enjoyed the reminder.

For two days I felt everything. Every stitch in my trousers, every crease on my bed linen. Every sensation against my body was magnified and experienced a thousand times over. I had forgotten how being glabrescent felt.

Clare swooned over my hairless body, and I much enjoyed the smooth feeling of my skin when I wore clothes. It was a unique sensation when wearing Latex, and the Lycra skinsuit I donned as I cycled to work was incredible against bare skin. It "improved me" Clare said, and we had some passionate vanilla sex on Friday night with the promised blowjob - my first in almost a year.

I felt her fingers grip my naked butt and squeeze in a way that I couldn't remember. I writhed against her nude body, and loved every moment of our skin-to-skin contact as every touch was closer, stronger and more intimate. It felt like I had shed a second skin, and standing hairless in front of my fiancée, I was more naked than I had ever been. More exposed. More vulnerable.

Two hours before she left to return to Victoria's Cheshire mansion, she set me another task. "I want you to find a casual fuck-buddy for when I am in Manchester. So you can have sex while I'm not here."

"I don't mind," I muttered, kissing her on the lips. "I can wait for you to come back. It's only a few days."

"No, you don't understand. I ... want," she emphasised. "You to find a casual person to play with," she replied. It wasn't a request, it was a demand. "I want you to have sexual freedom."

"OK. Well, there's this new secretary in our office. She's got wonderful tits and a fantastic butt." Clare glared at my cheeky grin. "What?"

"You know I don't like you fucking other women." She sniggered. "And yes, I am aware it's hypocritical, but we have our own hang-ups and that's one of them." I couldn't stop myself from laughing: since the day I had hooked up with Clare, I had barely looked at another woman and she knew that. "From Grindr, Jon."

"But Grindr's for ..." I muttered, and she smiled at me, kissing me on the lips once more. Her hands slid down my torso and cupped my erect prick in her hand. She broke from the kiss and whispered in my ear. "Someone does like the idea of this."

I suppose I did. "It's been a few weeks since I did that."

"It's like riding a bike," Clare told me.

"What, your butt can feel a little sore afterwards?"

Clare broke from the hug and stared into my eyes. "We both know you love my strapon, and you do adore the feeling of cock up there. We saw that at the sex club. All the guys who get over their inhibitions love to have their arse filled. How many men have plundered you?"

"Much, much, much less than you!"

"A few," Clare continued. "We know it's been a few. And you always enjoy it. I'm having fun outside of our relationship and I want you to do the same."

"I like you having your freedom."

"And I like you having yours." My fiancée got her own way. She always did, and that was no exception. We spent an hour talking before she had to catch a train, communicating openly. Victoria's husband was a regular lover to a "vast number" of men, and Clare was keen for us to join in the same games they played. I think she saw her best friend and host, as an inspiration and trailblazer. A role model. She dreamed of being Victoria 2.0, a sluttier, less-inhibited version of the slightly older woman.

She knew that I had enjoyed playing with my bisexuality. The discovery of that side to my sexuality had been an epiphany, and I had loved the numerous repeated experiences. But I did not have a regular lover. And my homosexual adventures - without Clare being present and part of the play - were non-existent.

Finally, she said that the idea that her life partner was taking a prick balls-deep made her "very wet" and with this knowledge I promised her I would attempt to make her wishes a reality. I actually liked the idea of having a regular male partner, with whom I could experiment with.

After Clare left for Manchester, I installed a male-only hookup app and spent all evening agonising over the pictures and description to add. I had never been comfortable describing myself and told Clare this the following day over WhatsApp about my deliberations. She asked for the login details, which I gave her, and two hours later, my phone was pinging with guys who wanted to meet with me. She had even uploaded a few explicit images of me she had stored on her cloud service.

I opted to see a married man who was fifteen years old than me, but who had the typical "Dad Bod." He replied almost instantly, and asked if we could meet at a pub on the other side of the city that night after work. "MarriedHung82" promised to wear a "Star Wars" T-shirt.

I agreed. My heart pounded as I cycled across Bristol in the September drizzle and got a few sly looks as a lycra-clad man drank alone in the beer garden. I didn't quite know how we would introduce ourselves or what we would talk about. I knew what I wanted - and what Clare expected - but the first impression would set that tone.

As it was, I never discovered what he desired. MarriedHung82 never turned up, and when I tried to message him on the app, I found that he had deleted his profile. Dejected and disappointed, I cycled home and made tea.

I scanned the other matches, which the gay hookup service had highlighted for me, and a couple piqued my interest. I arranged meetups for Tuesday and Wednesday with two very different men.

They were both disasters.

Barry, who I met first, was anxious, and had clearly overdosed on caffeine or some other Columbian export. His wide eyes bored into me and then kept looking around the intimate pub. He babbled and squealed, hyperventilated with shaking hands.

The hyperactive man later confessed that he had a bicurious itch that he needed to scratch and was desperate to do so before he married his primary school sweetheart. The prospect of his partner discovering his true sexuality, and calling off the wedding, terrified him. I suggested that addressing those insecurities was something he should have sorted out, before meeting a prospective male partner.

The following day I met a guy in a park, and I didn't recognise him. He looked nothing like his photo. The thirty-odd year-old in a football kit may have been the same man as the forty-odd year-old wearing XXXL clothes, but they were from different eras.

It was misleading. I didn't want a fuck-buddy that was twenty years older than me, and I didn't appreciate the deception. He didn't take kindly to me responding in the way I did, and I cycled home in a foul temper. He had tried to trick me with a bait-and-switch con, and I wasn't getting involved in his shitty games.

Frustrated, I did not check the app on Thursday, and it was only because a faulty fire alarm in the office evacuated every employee into the wet weather, that I found myself in the shelter of a nearby cafe with just my phone. Bored, I scrolled back through my messages from the hookup service.

One potential match grabbed my attention. Benji was less than 100m away from me, which meant he worked in a neighbouring office block, and he was a "bisexual top." His hairless bare chest had more muscle definition than I could even dream of, and his relaxed message to me was friendly. Did I want to meet him for a coffee?

I looked at his profile, and on balance, I did. He was a few years older than me, with similar interests, and was seeking for an easy-going, non-committal, FWB-style relationship where the dominant top would service the servile bottom on demand. I replied, asking if he wanted to meet at the cafe after work. He looked like he was just the sort of man and arrangement that I had been seeking.

Four hours after I had agreed to meet him, I sat in the same seat in the same coffee shop, waiting for Benji to arrive. I didn't really know what I expected and after three awful attempts at arranging a meetup with a fuck-buddy. All I needed was a genuine guy who wanted no-strings attached, occasional fucking, and who looked like his photo.

It was low expectations.

And Benji surpassed them with ease. We had a lot in common. He had a long-term female partner, who was aware of, and "tolerated" his bisexual side, as long as he didn't advertise it. Benji was a keen cyclist, like me, and had a set of sexual needs that tessellated with my own. He sought a couple of fuck-buddies, who would be available for some entertainment when he required it. The professional accountant wanted a bottom - as he had no interest in giving any carnal pleasure - and just needed another guy to receive what he gave. He insisted on safe, clean sex and demanded oral or anal, twenty to thirty minutes, about once or twice a week.

The bald-headed, muscular cyclist was kinky, demanded no emotional attachment, zero socialising outside of the bedroom, and plenty of gratification for the dominant alpha in that relationship. Benji was absolutely perfect. I was very keen to road-test the man's cock, and we arranged for him to come to my flat the following day after working hours.

Friday dragged. I struggled to concentrate on my work as everything was a fleeting reminder of sex. I checked the clock on the wall a hundred times every hour, counting down the minutes to when the bald-headed, robust accountant would be at my door and ready to plunder my body.

He messaged me on the app with a picture message from his office toilets showing a rock hard cock underneath his rock hard abs. I sent one back exhibiting my hairless, bare bottom.

Flirting with another man. I had never done that before, and I had excitement butterflies in my stomach that caused a smile a mile wide across my emotions. I cycled faster than I had ever cycled to get home to my flat, beating my previous personal best time by a solid ninety seconds.

Shower, douche, dinner, tidy. Benji was two minutes late. My heart leaped as the doorbell rang and I stood in my doorway stark naked as I welcomed the beaming man into my rented accommodation. "Sorry, I got lost getting here." He smiled as he ogled me. "You've started without me!"

We grabbed a beer each from my fridge and sat in the lounge, chatting about road bikes and lycra. As he sank the final dregs of his drink, he slouched on the sofa, unbuttoned his belt and made eye contact with me.

"Shall we get down to it? Amanda expects me home before eight."

"Sure," I muttered, and my voice quivered. This was unfamiliar territory for me. I was a bisexual cuckold with some gay experiences, but my homosexual encounters had always involved Clare. This was new ground, as I removed his designer boxer shorts by sliding them to his ankles. We never broke eye contact.

Not when I lowered my mouth to his dick, or when my lips swirled across the head of his uncut manhood.

He grunted as my hands gently passed underneath his balls, and my tongue swept across his sensitive frenulum. He smiled at me and ran his hand through my hair. "Good boy, take it all in!"

I felt two palms guide my face further into his crotch. His smooth shaft filled my mouth and tickled the back of my throat. I grunted into his thick prick, sucking on the stranger's tool. Unwashed, it reeked of manliness and domination. My lips brought him to an erection and then I bobbed. My cock erect, my cheeks burnt with shame and humiliation, and my mind swam with submission. I could not get enough of his delicious dick; he tasted of man and I needed it. I was a disgusting, shameless slut who worshipped the prick.