The Summerhouse Ch. 06: Martin

"Thank these lovely men, Jon," Victoria scolded. "They have given your fiancée a wonderful afternoon. The sort of sexual satisfaction, you, cannot give her!" The laughter was cruel, and the comment unnecessary. I mumbled in annoyance, and Clare squeezed my hand.

I was glad to return to the summerhouse before tea, and Martin chuckled as I grumbled about Victoria. "My wife is a vicious witch when she wants to be. You should have just accepted that you don't need to pay. She'll just keep on reinforcing that. She will take your pride, not your pounds." He passed me a beer from the fridge in the kitchen and sat down on the leather chair opposite. "She did it with Andrew Hamilton. They stayed for a few months a couple of years ago. He did the same thing. He needed to stay with us before he moved to Australia, and he was insistent. She almost broke him until he backed down and apologised."

I shook my head. "Why?"

"Victoria is hospitable, and she loves to give. Pain, sex, pleasure, dinner, and so on. Offering to pay when she says 'no' makes her cross. You offered, she said no. That's the end of it. Just accept that we like your company. That's payment enough for both of us." He smiled and sat back on the cool seat, and put his feet on a stool. "The quicker you accept that, the quicker she'll stop trying to strip you off your dignity. I can tell you don't like it."

"She couldn't have done much more today," I grumbled.

"Just you wait," Martin replied ominously. After dinner, I repeated my complaints to Clare before we settled in her room to watch a film and eat popcorn. We kissed, and I gave her a massage before sliding my tongue along her well-fucked slit to bring my slut to a delicious orgasm.

Victoria's campaign continued the following day. After work, she passed me a bag of clothes and an address. "Clare is going to have dinner with Alex," she announced. "You met him yesterday. He fucked her on the hood of his shagmobile." She sniggered as she spoke. "He wants you to pick her up from that address at eight. Wearing that."

I could hear the dangerous cruelty in her voice. It dripped with fiendish malevolence as I snatched the carrier bag from her grasp. Martin looked away from me. "Jon, you do know, Clare has given me free rein to discipline you in my dungeon if there is any sort of insubordination while she is away. Clare is going to a party which she has an invitation to. I have requested you to collect your partner from that party. Is there a problem?"

"No, but ..."

She cut across me. "Cuckolds will do whatever a lady instructs them to do. Those are the House Rules. And that sounds like you were about to be insubordinate. Would you like to rethink the words you were about to say?"

"I'm fine," I snapped.

"Excellent," Victoria hissed. "That is wonderful. If you find you are struggling, Jon, I have some brilliant methods of persuasion in my dungeon downstairs. Do you need any help?"

"No, I understand."

I didn't dare look in the bag of clothes until I was in the summerhouse, and after Martin and I had cleared and tidied the kitchen. Martin and Victoria were enjoying an evening together, and I sat on the couch with my book for an hour.

The address was a twenty minute drive away, at a student flat in Manchester suburb. The outfit was a neon rainbow coloured tutu, a pair of shocking pink stockings, a bright pink pair of Doc Martens boots. I stood bare-chested and ridiculous, and swore loudly.

While I drove to the student accommodation, I reconsidered the hold that Victoria had on me and my relationship. She was Clare's best friend, but she was taking an unnecessarily keen interest in humiliating me. After all, was it so bad that someone would want to contribute to the bills of their host?

The moment I stepped from my warm car to the cool Mancunian autumn, I heard laughter. Two girls, waiting at the bus stop opposite where I had parked the pink VW Beetle and next to a large five-storey block of student flats.

I hurried down the main path and entered the double doors, scanning the numbers on a plaque on the wall. "Fancy dress, mate?" A voice to my right laughed. Two guys chuckled as they passed, and one turned to surreptitiously photograph me on his phone. I'd be the butt of a few giggles in the bar later.

Flat 302 was on the third floor, and I took the steps two at a time, until I stood outside my destination. Music came from within and the tall, scrawny student who had fucked my fiancée on the hood of her car opened the door with a wide grin.

"Guys, who ordered a sissy?"

"I'm here to pick up Clare."

"So are half the University!" I was eager to get out of the corridor and asked if I could come in. He pulled his tracksuit bottoms to his knees. "Kiss and thank this prick for making your bird orgasm," the cocky lad said loudly and watched as my knees hit the cheap carpet and my lips caressed the damp bulbous head of his dick.

"Thank you for making Clare orgasm."

He sniggered and beckoned me into the room. Clare was naked. She had tied her brown hair into a ponytail, and she was sitting on the sofa between two half-naked men while drinking a beer.

The room reeked of pot and alcohol. Beer cans were scattered across the table and the worktop, and I counted seven men lounging about the flat, before Clare looked up at me from the sofa, and smiled.

"One last thing before we go," she said and got up from the couch. She kissed me on the lips before picking up a mug from the table. It was filled with used condoms and I groaned.

One by one, she cut the teat of the condoms and drained the watery cum into a small wine glass. "Nine, I think," she muttered and passed it to me. "The guys want to see you drink their cum."

My cheeks burnt as the juvenile University students chanted. "Down it! Down it!" Clare rubbed my bum through the tutu and I sighed, picked up the glass and emptied the musky mixture onto my tongue.

Some cheered, others laughed. The immaturity of it torched my ego. Of course, I swallowed cum. I was a bisexual submissive cuckold. It was ridiculous to think that I would feel shame for doing that. Clare grabbed her bag and disappeared into the bathroom. "Tasty, was it?" One asked me and I just shrugged. I felt more embarrassed by the outfit which Victoria had chosen.

"Nice enough," I replied. "I've had nicer, and worse. Eat more pineapple. Less processed food." Clare entered the room, wearing an identical outfit, except she had a thin leotard to hide her bare breasts. The men hollered as she stepped into the room and twirled for them. Clare loved the attention.

She said goodbye to each guy, kissing them on the cheek, and then patted me on the backside as we left their student flat. "Like the tutu?" Clare giggled. "Those guys were such fun, but I couldn't see them too often. Intense, and not all in a good way," she told me. "I mean, I like sex, but they were not good at seduction. Even for a slut like me!"

I grunted and unlocked the car. "You suit this garb better than I do," I moaned.

"Nonsense. Oh, and Victoria sent me a message. We need to stop off to get four bottles of white wine and pick up some pizzas."

"Well, I can stay in the car."

"That's not what she said," Clare giggled. "She wants proof of you in the off-licence and takeaway."

"For fuck's sake."

"She knows what she is doing," Clare giggled.

The female off-license worker smiled as we took four bottles of wine to the checkout, and the girl giggled as Clare put thirty pounds on the counter. "Fancy dress?"

"Yeah," I replied with a grin. "Her idea."

"Must be cold out there to be topless!" She asked me and then picked up her phone to photograph me. "Ya mind?"

"Of course not!" Clare replied and looped her arm through mine. She smiled at the girl behind the counter before we left.

The takeaway owner didn't even care that he had two half-naked people in his establishment. He never batted an eyelid as the ludicrously dressed individuals paid for the pizza on the order. I guess he had seen far worse.

I dreaded what Victoria would come up with on Tuesday, but I got up, worked and helped Martin cook tea, without hearing a peep from the sadistic mistress of the house. She passed us her plate when she had finished and complimented me on a wonderful curry, well presented.

"He's very domesticated," Victoria teased, and patted me on the head. "I was looking in our dungeon, and it hasn't been cleaned for a couple of weeks. Boys, I have a job for you this evening."

She rose from the table and tipped a plastic bag onto her place mat. Two sealed packages came out, and she passed one to me. "The dungeon needs cleaning, properly attired of course."

The cheap, poorly made French Maid Outfit was a deliberate humiliation. Victoria raised her eyebrows at me as I snatched the package from the table to get dressed.

I looked ridiculous. The straps and low-cut of the cheap French Maid outfit would have been an enticing revelation if I had possessed the appropriate sized chest. The panties were tight around my crotch, and the thigh-high fishnet stockings were thin and flimsy.

"Perfect," Victoria cried and passed me a small toolbox of cleaning equipment. "Off you go."

Martin waited until we were both in the dungeon when he glared at me. "Just apologise to my wife, please. Accept that she doesn't want your money."

"No."

"Jon, you're being stubborn. If you apologise, it all stops."

"I ..."

"Unless you don't want it to stop!" Martin teased. "Perhaps you like being dressed as a sissy and made to clean a bondage dungeon!"

"No, but ... it's wrong for us to stay with you and not pay! I am earning. Clare is earning. At least let us ..."

Martin interrupted me with a groan and threw a feather duster at me. "Start at the top," he barked, and I ran the bright yellow duster over the tops of the picture frames, bondage furniture and cages. I treated the wooden handles and benches with wood oil, and polished the metal until it gleamed.

Every movement reinforced the uncomfortable outfit. Cheap polyester itched, the underwear rode up my backside and kneeling on the tights were painful. It was exhausting, and two hours later, Victoria's heels on the steps echoed into the vast playspace. "Look how well they've done," she cried. "It's like having domestic servants. And you earning your keep. Car Washer. Chauffeur. Maid. I told you, you'd do jobs!"

She giggled and the powerful woman grabbed my arm and pulled me to a St Andrew's Cross. "I have something I want to try."

I looked for Clare, but my partner wasn't in the dungeon and Martin looked shiftily at me. The straps of the cross fastened my wrists and ankles to the wall, and she selected a long thin nylon cane from her selection.

"I want to know, if you can take more hits of this implement than my subby husband." She announced and stood behind me.

The first lash I felt as if I was on bare skin. The thin black polyester dress and panties did nothing to break the strike that landed on my rump with an agonising whack. I screamed and yelled.

Victoria was merciless. She swiped my backside once more, laughing to herself as I struggled against my bonds. "Stop it, stop it!" I cried in agony, hot strikes across my covered flesh, and she whispered in my ear.

"Spoil sport. I was just getting started. You see, I have a businessman that comes to see me every Wednesday. And he pays me to break him. He gives me dough so I turn him into a blubbering, screaming, bawling mess of pathetic filth. I don't need the money, but he's a cunt, and he's rich, and the cash goes straight to the village foodbank that I run." I gulped. "So if you pay money in this house to me, I will assume that it is a payment to break you until you're a shivering wreck. Is that clear?"

"But ..."

I never finished my sentence as the strike of the cane landed squarely in the middle of my bum and my words turned into a violently shouted profanity. "On your butt, with pleasure!" Victoria squealed and smashed the weapon into my polyester-clad rump.

Martin untied me, and I moaned to Clare in her room. She laughed as she rubbed ointment into my wound. "OK. You and Victoria are waving your dicks about. You won't win. She has bigger balls than you. Much bigger balls. Just accept that she doesn't want our money."

"I do, but it's not right. Can't we at least say that she gives it to the charity she runs?"

"You have that discussion with her." Clare looked at me and shook her head. "I had the same chat with her and she gave me the same answer. She loves Martin, and she loves me. Let it go."

The following day, I broached the idea of charitable giving over lunch. "It's a compromise," I suggested. "I feel like I am contributing and your charity gets extra money."

Her lips pursed. "I don't do compromise, Jon. And the Foodbank is well resourced because of a legacy that my husband made two years ago. And the two businessman who come to my dungeon every week pay me serious money to beat them raw. You are our friends. You are here to accept our hospitality." She looked at her watch and then at me. "Which reminds me, Jacob will be here soon and I need to get the battery out. It's been a while since I attached his balls to a few volts. Scram, unless you want me to test it on you."

That evening, Victoria and Clare took us to their sex club for a "special evening." We went in Clare's car and my fiancée put her hand on mine as we drove to the manor house, squeezing it as I drove.

The event was in full swung, and we took the last car parking space. Victoria strode into the main hall with a broad smile on her face.

Mud Wrestling. All-male submissive mud wrestling.

She grinned as I took in the display; Martin and I were both entered, with losers in the game given a forfeit.

I was lucky and got a bye in the first round. I watched Martin easily pin down a weedy, slender man who slipped and flailed in the thin mud pit.

My first match was against a large older gentleman. Women lined the pit, hollering as I climbed into the twenty square metre, inflatable pit and slipped on the grey-brown substance under my feet.

Naked. I shivered from cold and from anxiousness. This was Victoria's game, but I had never done mud wrestling before. I never questioned her, but like Martin, waiting on the sidelines and covered in mud, I faced "Sammy" - a robust, wheezing man with endless sprouting hair and a scowling face.

I didn't see my opponent's earlier match, but it had covered his rotund body with streaks of mud.

I struggled to keep my balance as I stood in the inflatable ring. The slippery mud oozed between my toes and reached my ankles as I needed to use my arms to leverage my balance.

Sammy had more trouble, and his right foot slipped to leave him kneeling in the silky brown ooze. I guessed Sammy was around fifteen years older than me. His overweight body suggested a lack of mobility and he possessed little balance.

Sammy stumbled and tumbled into the mud, before he staggered to his feet. His primitive technique was to haul me onto the ground and then use his bodyweight to pin me to the mat. It almost worked, as my opponent launched himself on top of me, and I had top use the lubricious nature of the clay mud to slide from underneath him.

His downfall came when he over-reached as he tried to grab my ankles and he lost his battle against gravity. I used my naked body to glide over him and hold him face-first into the mud. After my victory, the organisers hosed me down with a cold water shower.

Martin was next on the mat and was easily beaten by a Daniel Radcliffe lookalike. My host floundered in the mat, and the young man swiftly bettered the businessman.

The Quarter-Final was between myself and Martin's conqueror. As I faced him, I could see better muscle definition than when I watched from the back of the room. He had strength and power that I didn't, and I could see how Martin had succumbed so limply.

A second after the whistle blew, our hands grappled. His superior upper body strength was clear, but I had leg muscles from cycling. He pushed me back against the ring, but could leverage my strength against him.

He smelt of manly exertion, with the same smell and aura as Scott and the footballers, but there was a weakness in his wrestling. He relied on his upper body strength. I deliberately slipped and fell to my right knee to send my opponent crashing into the mud when his legs floundered and his body listed. A few moments later, he was eliminated.

Through the open door, I could see Martin attached to a set of stocks with at least one woman behind him wearing a large, robust strapon. He would be in heaven, and his forfeit would be far from unpleasant.

My semi-final match was against a quick-footed but robust gentleman of a similar age. The blonde-haired guy smirked as he saw me, and my tired muscles ached as he made quick work of the grappling to force me into a surrender.

Face down, I sputtered in the mud. His weight pressed down on me, and his dick rubbed against my ass crack as his body forced me into the cold, slippery goo.

Victoria smiled as I stumbled to me feet, and she guided me into a cold shower and then, while dripping, to a raffle box. "I entered the little maggot," Victoria said to the organiser, staring at me. "I get to choose his forfeit." The octagonal wooden cylinder, was rotated, and she flicked open a window to pull a random piece of paper from the box.

My fingertips tingled as she unfurled the forfeit. "Oh bugger!" She squealed and passed the paper to the organiser.

The rotund lady, stretching the black Latex garment, raised her eyebrows. "Your forfeit is to clean the Great Hall at the end of tournament."

"Martin's getting buggered by a hundred pricks, Joe's getting whipped, Ankit is getting fucked on camera, and Oliver is getting pissed upon. Why couldn't you get a proper forfeit! I need to strip this twat of his dignity!"

The organiser looked down her nose at Victoria with a disapproving look. Victoria's mood didn't improve when the other losing semi-finalist received an hour in the stocks.

After the final, two of us had to empty the mud from the paddling pool, carry it out outside, hose it down, clean it and then packed it away, before mopping and drying the floor of the Great Hall.

It was hard work, and Victoria prowled to ensure that I didn't enjoy it. To be honest, I think I would rather have spent an hour in the stocks, pelted with unsavoury items and buggered mercilessly by dominant women and their stout strapons.

Although Victoria would never admit it, I had been punished by not being punished.

On Thursday, after work, I helped Martin cook a complicated dinner. We worked well as a team, and Scott -- who came to the summerhouse -- ambled up the garden path when he found the wooden play palace locked. He had messaged Martin earlier in the day to get something to eat as his boyfriend was working the late shift, and the bisexual star seated himself between our wives as they ate the three-course meal.

"I have a job for you, Scott," Victoria asked him. "Only take an hour, or thereabouts." She shot a look at me and then sent me out of the room to load the dishwasher.

"Here is a shopping list," Clare told me and passed me a folded up piece of paper. She also held out a pint of water. "You will need to hydrate."

"Why?"

Her eyebrows defied gravity for a moment and I sank the water in the tankard. I took the paper from her, and she called me back. "You need to get dressed first."

"I ..."

"We have what you need." I groaned, and she grabbed my left hand and guided me into another room. I didn't protest. Clare squeezed my hand as Victoria smirked at me and told me to lie on my back on her soft carpet.

I never even guessed what was in her bag, but the large adult nappy and pink plastic pants was not what I expected. She put a polyester tie on the plastic pants so I could not remove them without breaking the seal. Her way of control. The tight black shorts bulged and every time I moved, the crinkle of the pink plastic pants was clearly audible. "C'mon," I hissed and grabbed the white T-shirt from the dominant woman.