The Summerhouse Ch. 12: Scott

I got spit-roasted by two students, who lived in the adjacent house, and then Cal's eighteen-year-old cousin left me screaming in delight and pleasure as jackhammered his prick into my backside.

By the time the match had finished, I had satisfied another four men, including a cocky runt with tattoos, a shifty demeanour and one of the largest cocks I had ever seen. He knew how well endowed he was, and there was no way I would be able to deepthroat his epic member.

When he had blown his load down my throat, he told me to return to the lounge where the remaining eleven men, plus Scott, were arguing over the football.

"Ahh, it's the tail." He smiled at me with a weird grin and unwrapped a chocolate digestive on a blue paper plate. "We're going to play Soggy Biscuit," he added, and tossed Scott a pair of handcuffs. "Wrap them on his wrists."

The men laughed cruelly, and Robbie placed the plate with the chocolate biscuit in the centre of the room on the smallest coffee table from his pine furniture stack. Scott fastened my hands behind my back and I groaned as he did so.

Man after man painted that biscuit with their cum. Cal was first, leaving a generous translucent splatter that oozed against the biscuit base. Robbie was next. And then it was a free for all.

Scott was the last one to empty his balls on the biscuit, and then he slowly jerked my prick. I made eye contact with Robbie, who smiled at me. My dick felt delightful as Scott pumped my shaft. He chuckled as I groaned, and he released all the horniness and erotic energy that had built up in the past three hours. I reached the point of no return, and it felt wonderful.

Scott removed his hand. He laughed as the sudden realisation of the ruined orgasm hit me and cum dribbled without satisfaction from the end of my cock onto the biscuit.

He waited until it stopped, and then he ran his fingers down the shaft to milk the last of the cum from my prick. Two drops landed on the biscuit iced with cum. The pool of viscous liquid on the top of the chocolate biscuit, the product of fourteen pairs of balls, waited for me.

Scott pressed on my shoulders so I landed on the carpet. I was being filmed by two guys, jeered at by a couple more, as Scott picked the digestive by the edge and brought it towards my mouth. My hands were useless, and Scott was his sadistic worst as he pushed the biscuit into my open mouth.

"Eat It! Eat It! Eat It!" They cheered and taunted. My cheeks burnt with embarrassment, as warm, salty, briny goo slipped over the edge of the biscuit and landed on the back of my throat.

Musky cum filled my mouth as I chewed down on the sodden biscuit to swallow it along with the smorgasbord of semen.

Humiliating. Degrading. And my cock sparked into life. I couldn't stop it, and the shameless response to the filthy ordeal caused my cheeks to burn more.

And as I swallowed the cum-soaked cookie, Scott poured the cum from the plate over my forehead and hair. Their seed dripped down my face and onto my orange wrestling singlet.

Their humiliation complete when Scott reinserted the butt-plug, and I had to walk through the estate with cum plastered to my face and in my hair. And the moment we got back to the summerhouse, he made me lick his dick until I had a fresh batch of jism in my hair before my shower.

We played on the video games after tea, and Scott overslept the following morning, so he missed out on any shenanigans.

I was glad that he had training after work, as my first meeting of the day was with my boss, and a quality review of the code recently submitted had found serious deficiencies with several submissions.

He had no complaint with my work, but two of my colleagues were hauled over the coals, and the team had two hundred bug reports to close by the end of the week. Scott not returning to the summerhouse until 8:30 was ideal for me, and he understood that I had work to do when he came home. These were not my faults, but I was a senior member of the team and it was incumbent on all of us to fix this and I worked until midnight to close off over a third of the highlighted defects.

I was knackered when I went to bed and woke with a start on Tuesday morning. Scott pulled my covers from my slumbering body. "Gonna have a shower. Do us a coffee and breakfast."

I groaned, and he slapped my bare ass with a thunderous hit of his right hand. I was being used and dominated, and my cock rose as the sting of his smack radiated across my pasty buttocks.

Scott was naturally dominant. He had the same demeanour as Victoria and my lovely fiancée. He demanded rather than asked, and I did not want to resist. It never entered my thoughts that I could.

The small kitchen in the summerhouse had four electric rings, and an electric oven, and I fried up eight rashers of bacon, as the coffee in the brimming French press smelt delicious.

Scott stood in the kitchenette's doorway with just a towel wrapped around his shoulders. He said nothing as I passed two rolls and a drink, and he beckoned me into the lounge.

I knew what he wanted.

I had seen that look before.

He never had to say a word as he sat in an armchair and watched as I did my duty. I never tired of wrapping my lips around his long prick and sucking gently on his smooth balls. My tongue glided across his frenulum and wrapped around his long shaft.

I inhaled his clean, fresh scent, and listened to his mewling grunts. His hands ran through my hair and he softly stroked me. Affectionate and warm. A tender touch, as my lips enticed his prick to erection. A sensual caress of me, his bisexual lover, as I lovingly suckled his scintillating cock.

Slow and steady. My hands glided over his firm chest and gently rubbed against his nipples; my gaze drifted across his toned body and stared into his blue eyes. His need, acknowledged. Each lick of his firm dick made as I looked into his desperate expression.

His cock slid against the back of my throat. His body bucking under my touch and his body swimming with lust as my mouth bobbed on his delicious prick. A muskiness. His taste, so familiar, gripped the inside of my mouth as his pre-cum lingered on the palette.

The soft ridges of my mouth glided over his veined, creased dick. Scott's groans grew louder. His breathing became ragged and disjointed and he gulped, staring at me as his muscles tensed. He was at the point of no return. His hands needlessly held onto the back of my head as his cock pulsed.

Of course I was going to take every drop of his salty, musky seed. He didn't need to ensure that I wouldn't; my present and reward for a loving blow-job. I wanted to taste it as much as Scott wanted me to have it.

The first wave bubbled onto my tongue, the next three smashed against the inside of my mouth. Viscous with a pungent, sweet odour that lingered in the mouth and on the nose. A piquant fragrance that was bitter and beautiful, and acrid and alluring.

It was my drug, and I was hooked.

Scott grinned as I licked the remnants of cum from his prick and down on a chair opposite. "God, I love getting blow-jobs in the morning," he said and picked up his bacon roll.

"And I love giving them."

"I know. And this week, I will get them every day." His bewitching and disarming demeanour brought a smile to my face. "And I've got training again tonight. So I'll be home for eight. I want a healthy tea with plenty of protein and then a lubed arsehole to plunder."

"Ohh, like a pirate."

"Yeah, if you like," he replied. "Like a pirate. And I'm after the booty!" He chuckled. "You better not be working tonight!"

Scott left the summerhouse twenty minutes after flooding my mouth with his cum. I had eaten my cold bacon roll and made a fresh pot of coffee after having a shower.

The nippy winger was far more sexually demanding that Martin. At his heart, the multi-millionaire was a submissive character at home; he loved giving rather than receiving, and we had similar sexual desires.

Mutual 69 was common between us, as neither of us were being dominant. I rarely ravaged his body, nor him of me, because our sexualities didn't want for that. It was rare for me to want to top anyone.

Scott was highly sexed, with specific dominant requirements. He had a willing slut he could use, and his actions showed that he would not decline this open invitation. He craved sexual release two or three times a day. His prick was thirsty for booty and he had every intention to sate his hunger on my body.

I had a productive day at work; I had closed over a hundred of the quality defects my team had produced, and I put on Spotify and just worked from the beginning of the day to the mid-afternoon. My manager called me to thank me; my efforts had not gone unnoticed, and he told me to make sure that I signed off at five. He had made frequent comments that the quality and quantity of my work had dramatically increased since I moved to Martin's fuck palace, and I realised that I had far fewer distractions.

Martin usually spent most of his day on the phone or on conference calls on-line and then did chores around the house. No-one disturbed me, unlike when I worked in the office. I didn't have to show Jake the basics of object-orientated coding for the umpteenth time, or feign interest in Rachel's pregnancy, or listen to Zach recount his latest misogynistic theory about the role of women who would not touch him.

I didn't have the office politics to tiptoe around. I could just put my headphones on, listen to a smorgasbord of soft-rock and work through my to-do list, which was longer than Kenneth Branagh's rendition of Hamlet but with a far smaller clothing budget.

After work, I donned some jeans and a T-shirt, and ventured into the supermarket. Wearing fabrics felt weird and uncomfortable, but I bought enough food for the next couple of days, and some artisan cider for Scott. My bank account was as buoyant as it had ever been, and I did not need to care that there was twenty quid of alcohol, most of which I would not drink. Martin had even tried to leave me some money to pay for the food while he was not at home, but I firmly rejected his offer.

I was not a confident chef, but I followed a simple recipe for a balsamic beef salad with beetroot and rocket. It was low calorie, high protein, and the smells coming from the sizzling pan were simply delicious.

Scott returned to the summerhouse, soaking wet; the British weather that had been overcast all day, had unleashed torrential rain on my new housemate as he cycled to the timber den of vice.

I said nothing as he stashed his old, rusting bike at the back of our wooden home. It dripped onto the wooden floor, and the underpowered, feint lights were not sufficient to illuminate him on the night-time country lanes that he rode on.

He grunted as we sat down to eat, and I broached the subject of his unsafe bike. "It's fine," he countered with a dismissive wave of his fork. "Grub's good." I tried once more, and he shook his head. "I ain't been knocked off and I've been cycling for years. Ain't ever passed my driving test. No point. I can get everywhere on m'bike. Had decent lights once, and they got nicked. Those wheels are twenty years old and still going fine. A bit of rust never hurt no-one." His fork scraped along the bottom of his plate. "Oh, and Virginia is coming around on Thursday after work. Cook us a meal, will you?"

"OK. What do you want?"

Scott shrugged and smirked. "Surprise me. I want her to meet you again."

"Why?"

"'Cause she's gonna leave her fella, and I'd like her to meet ya. So she knows the other person I bang every week." His eyebrows flickered into a cheesy expression and he tapped his plate with his finger. "I cleared it with Martin. He said something about strapons, but I don't think she goes in for that sort of thing. She's not that dominant with men. She's a bit of a slut, though. So you two have plenty in common."

"Right."

"Only she doesn't really like it up the poopchute. Unlike you. And she isn't fond on giving blowjobs, whereas you will stick your lips around anything. You're a whore for anyone with a dick, an ass, a pussy or a strapon."

"I am not a whore," I replied, with a hurt tone to my voice. "I've told you before!"

"I know," he laughed. You don't charge. But ya could do. Your lips are the bomb! So are Martin's. I think gay guys..." He stopped and looked at me. "And bisexual guys, give the best head. There isn't a thing as a shonky bee-jay, but to be a top piece of head-to-head action, to be a world champion contender, it has to be a bit of a batty boy."

"Does that mean you give good head too?" I asked, and Scott's lips curled into a grin.

"I hate giving head. I do not know what you faggots love about wrapping your lips around a man's meat stick. Cunt is a wonderful taste, but sausage. I mean, why?"

"Each to their own," I muttered. "And I like licking cunt too!" I looked at Scott, sat in just his underwear with his discarded sodden clothes on the floor. His tight boxers did little to hide the semi-erect dick in his shorts. "Even better when the cunts are full of cum! Oh, is this chatter about blowjobs because you want one?"

He laughed. "I always want one. But I fancy being a bit of a Jack Sparrow tonight. You prepared yourself?"

"Of course! I douched when I returned from the supermarket and have ample lube." His expression flickered. "Because you said you wanted to ... enjoy the booty."

"Yes, I do!" Scott called, and just looked at the leather sofa. We both knew what to do, and I knelt on the floor, and put my chest on the cool, black seat.

It seemed like an eternity for Scott to kneel behind me, nudging my legs a little further apart. He dropped a little squirt of lubricant onto my crack and used his fingers to massage it into the hole.

I groaned. I always did when Scott expertly touched me. My cock hardened as he worked his finger into the first and second knuckle.

His hand slapped my buttcheek; hard enough to make me squeal but not anywhere near powerful enough to hurt. It was the footballer asserting his dominance.

It felt amazing. One-on-one with Scott was incredible. He worked his finger up and down my arsehole, and drove the lubricant across my prepared hole.

One finger became two; I squirmed in desperation as he caressed my opening. He stretched my hole to prepare for his cock, rotating his fingers as they slid in and out of my greased arse.

Then nothing. The rip of the condom packet and the unmistakable smell of spermicide-tipped Latex screamed what he was doing. He was ready, just like me.

The blunt head of his cock pressed against me and slipped in easily. The intense feeling of fullness and pressure from within my sanctuary.

Soft groans, as I adjusted to his prick sliding into me. He gripped my waist to get leverage for his cock. To enter me completely, which he had done so often.

I wanted him all; I wanted him to stuff me and pound me. I closed my eyes, savouring every inch that his cock pressed into me. To accommodate him.

And then he rocked, grinding his dick into me. His hand slipped around my waist and grabbed my erect dick, but I stopped him.

He had never wanked my prick while screwing me before, and I knew that a few strokes would be all it took for me to come. I didn't want to focus on anything other than his stout dick sliding into my hole, sliding against my prostate and filling my arse.

Scott understood.

He began to piston his dick into me with unrelenting, impassioned fucking. Every thrust slapped his crotch against my buttchecks and his balls bounced against mine. His fingers dug into my waist.

It was too delicious, too erotic, too fantastic. I knew I was grunting like a squealing pig, and Scott jerked his cock deep into me and held his spasming dick inside me. I felt his cock jerking and thought about the cum collecting in the teat of his condom.

He sat back on his haunches, panting and sighed. "Turn around," he said, and he picked up the lubricant. He just smiled as he squirted gripped my right wrist, turned it and poured a fifty-pence piece sized amount of liquid into my hand. "Now jerk off for me."

He stared as my fingers ran across my erect cock. My arse longed for more intrusion, but my body sizzled from my hand and my fingers. It was Scott imposing control and power once more. It was him jerking my chain, and within a few strokes, I had covered my hands in cum.

He grunted and pulled my hand up to my lips. I had tasted my cum many times but the humiliation of doing it in front of him was delicious.

We both had showers, and I cleaned up. Scott and I settled onto the couch, and stayed awake until one in the morning playing FIFA and drinking cider. It was a relationship that I did not have with Martin, who eschewed the games console most of the time. I always felt awkward spending hours playing alone while he read his book in the corner of the room. I only ever played on the games machine when he served his wife and Clare was otherwise occupied.

Scott, however, was more of a gaming fan than a book aficionado. We connected as buddies and teamed up to play on-line games together. It was obvious that he played the game relentlessly, and as a pair we were unbeaten in our dozen games. "That's just like me," he boasted as he controlled Lionel Messi, and danced through the pathetic tackles of the opposition before coolly slotting home from a tight angle. "I can do that on the pitch too!"

"Yeah?"

Scott glared at me. "Why do you think you have to down so much of my amber nectar? I have a right foot that can open up any defence. I'm a wizard with my right."

"And your left?"

"We don't talk about it!"

Scott fondled my buttocks as I climbed the ladder to bed. "So fuckable."

"You surely can't want another fuck?" I asked, and he hummed.

"Tomorrow," he mused, and settled into Martin's bed. "Y'know," he muttered. "I think I prefer fucking your arse to Iain's. It's a better quality of hole." He laughed in the darkness and sighed.

Once more, I was awoken by Scott's alarm clock and then by the dominant lodger pulling my duvet from my slumbering body. "I want a bowl of cereal. Muesli or porridge. A coffee, black, no sugar. And a quick blowjob. I was almost late yesterday."

His firm hand left a redness on my bare buttocks and I grumbled as I followed him down the ladder to the large open playspace, containing the dozen chairs, sofas, puffies as well as pots of lubricant, condoms and a huge projector screen.

I made enough porridge for four people. In my half-awake state, I poured the oats into a large saucepan and added over a pint of milk that bubbled nicely on the stove. He came up behind me as I poured the coffee from the cafetiere and wrapped his hands around my waist.

I felt his breath on the nape of my neck and his warm body press against mine. He was naked, still damp from his shower. "Smells nice," he whispered in my ear and reached to turn down the heat from the saucepan that contained bubbling porridge. "Now, about that other thing."

I turned to face him. Our face were inches from each other, and his expression full of cheekiness. He just smiled as my legs buckled and my knees hit the floor of the small kitchen.

I stared, transfixed, at the purple head of his freshly washed prick. My mouth salivated at the prospect. My lips parted and my tongue swirled across the stiff, erect cock that called to me.

It was natural. It had become an instinctive reaction when I saw any prick, but Scott's dick had become even more so. I loved the soft, velvety texture of his shaft and the strong, veiny ridges that criss-crossed his cock. My nose smashed against the smattering of pubic fuzz as my mouth took every inch of his long tool.

"Quickly, boy!"