The Summerhouse Ch. 13: Colin

Navigating the roads of Cheshire at rush-hour while naked was scary. Plenty of people saw me, although it looked like I was just shirtless in the early spring morning. I still attracted second glances, which Scott loved and I hated.

My companion worked as a senior machinist at a small factory, on the outskirts of the nearest town near the football stadium. The complex, spread over decades-old buildings, had over a hundred employees on site, and Scott directed me to drive to the edge of the furthest of the four car parks, next to a tiny brick shed. "That's the coal store."

"OK."

"Get out."

"I can't." He glared at me, and I sighed.

"Why?"

He reached across me and took the key from the ignition. "Scott, I need those. I have a conference call at eleven."

"That's in three-and-a-half hours," he replied. "If you want them back, I have some tasks for you." I shook my head in exasperation, and he seemed to enjoy the panicked expression on my face.

"What?"

"And you're always moaning about how much extra time you put in, and your manager says you can have a few hours when you need it. Right now is when you need it. Take off your shoes and go into that coal shed. You can have your keys and phone back when you've done all your tasks."

"What tasks?"

"You'll find out. Get out before I drag you out. And cause a scene. You've got sixty seconds."

"Scott," I protested, and my friend opened the passenger door with my car keys and phone in his hand. "Scott!" I yelled. "This isn't funny." The nippy winger just waved at me as he crossed the empty gravel car park to the old building and entered through a side door in the factory. "Fuck!"

Without having much of an alternative, I kicked my shoes off and left my car, ducking behind the vehicle and running to the small six foot square windowless building. The wooden door was unlocked, and I turned on the switch which bathed the cold, brick room in pale light.

I shivered in the dirty, grubby space. On the floor was a plastic bag, and I opened it to find an envelope addressed to "Jon" and a black cotton hood.

I ripped open the envelope and unfurled the paper.

In this room you shall wait,

Give blowjobs to one and all.

We will send some lusty boys,

To empty their blue balls.

Put on the balaclava,

Wait patiently on your knees.

For a load of horny cocks,

You are going to receive.

When your task is complete,

And you have a tummy full of goo.

The final boy will give to you.

Another task for you to do.

"Fucking bastard," I moaned and pulled the thin black balaclava over my head. The cotton hood covered my eyes but left my mouth open to receive. I felt a shiver as I knelt on my haunches.

I didn't know how long I waited. It was a torment - it could have been five minutes or fifty, time had no meaning. I strained my ears to listen for any sound, but the hard, rough surface caused my knees to ache. I wished Scott had given me a cushion.

My heart pounded. This could have been an elaborate practical joke by my friend, and Security were about to come in and call the Police. He was only a senior machinist on the factory floor. The company had several dozen employees on the site, and any of them could stumble upon me in this compromising position.

Every sound startled and made strain my ears. The sounds of birds landing on the roof of the coal shed, or the creak of the door as the wind blew, excited me. My anticipation worked me into a frenzy, and when the pronounced noise of footsteps on the gravel grew louder, my heart fluttered.

The wooden door creaked open and a draught of cold air smashed through my body. Butterflies did cartwheels in my stomach and my mouth felt dry. This wasn't like a gloryhole; I was in full view of an unknown person entering the room and he could see me naked.

I heard the comforting, arousing sound of a trouser zipper, and the cool breeze disappeared. My mouth agape, expectantly. Anticipating the dick to slide against my welcoming lips. Waiting for an anonymous man to use me for the first time.

I jerked in shock as the delicate, fleeting glance of a soft prick hit my cheeks and my hand gripped the base. Warm, flaccid and uncircumcised. He had unbuttoned his shorts or trousers and slid his underwear down his thigh, and I didn't feel any pubic fuzz.

I mentally built a picture of the guy. I had to. I had to imagine that he was a muscle-ripped twenty-something hunk who took immaculate care of his body and his smooth skin. I dreamt he had a girlfriend, but the offer of a free blowjob from a cocksucking dirtbag was too good to pass up.

His cock swelled as my lips sucked on the head of his prick. My tongue flicked his frenulum, and I drew my head over his shaft to bob on his stiffening prick. He tasted slightly of pee where he hadn't shaken his cock after pissing. There was an acidic, pungent foulness to his pre-cum soaked dick that sent my arousal haywire.

He was definitely a "grower" and my hand gently wanked his firm shaft as my tongue swirled against his head. The nameless man grunted, and I sucked on the odoriferous glans to draw groans and gasps from his body.

He panted, whimpered, and his cock tensed. Instinctively, I put my hands underneath his bare buttocks to hold his prick in place, and as his manhood spasmed, he tried to withdraw.

I wanted his cum. I needed it. I would not let him ejaculate over my body or balaclava when it could land on my tastebuds.

He squealed and then gave a guttural groan as the first splatter landed on the roof of my mouth. "Oh, God! Oh God! Oh God!"

His cock slipped through my lips as the last jet of his juices pooled on my tongue and I felt the cool draught once more. I was alone with my thoughts and my arousal. I replayed that blowjob in my mind until footsteps outside stopped, and the coal door creaked.

A shuffle of feet, the parting of a zip: the sound carried above the chirping birds. The second man possessed a prick that was long, thin and sweaty. His cock perched underneath a smattering of fuzz, and he rapidly thrusted his slick tool into the opening of my hood and slammed his dick down my throat. Almost grateful and relieved, when he shot his load into me.

The third man was overweight and climaxed with just a few licks of his tiny dick. The fourth and fifth men entered the shed together, and I alternated between giving a blowjob and a handjob. I moaned into their schlongs - one thick and meaty, and the other, long and veiny.

They laughed and giggled at first. I imagined their immature laughs came from two eighteen-year-old apprentices without the balls to come alone, but the joke quickly turned into a satisfying visit. My licks of their cocks, strong tongue massages of their shafts, and delicate strokes by my hand, soon had them both squirming, grunting, swearing and squirting.

The sixth bloke was already hard. He forced his dick into my mouth and face-fucked me, causing me to gag on his salty, bitter cock. And then he withdrew to jerk himself off over my naked body. As the cum landed on me, I felt even more of a whore.

My cock bobbed at the thought. I lost count after that. There were at least nine or ten men who had come through that door, but it could have been a dozen. My lips and hands worked every single one of them to a squirming, squealing, groaning, grunting climax of deliciousness. My mind was in its happy, uncomplicated place as the blindfold dulled my senses and I submitted to the unseen guys who sported enticing and luscious cocks.

"You're done, cocksucker. Take your hood off!" I was still savouring the fruitiness of the last load when those words echoed around the shed.

My eyes took a few moments to adjust to the pale light in the coal store. The door was open ajar and the narrow chink of brightness from outside illuminated the inside of the brick built building.

I wiped my body free of cum with the balaclava and threw it to one side. An envelope lay on the floor in front of the open door, and behind that was another plastic bag. I unfurled the paper and read the poem within.

In this bag is your plug,

Slip it up your bum.

We know it's rather large,

But big plugs are your fun.

We have given you some lube,

To help you get it in,

And a plan of the site,

For where you show some skin.

Go to each star on the map,

So we'll see your toy,

Bend over, spread your cheeks,

Humiliation, dear boy!

You'll count to thirty seconds,

That you must expose,

And in those places you may find,

Some treats, perhaps some clothes?

Flash your hole around the factory,

Expose at every star

Finishing on Number five

Gets you closer to your car.

The bag contained one of my buttplugs from the bathroom. The thick metal bulb had a pink crystal jewel on the handle of the plug. At around five inches long, and two inches wide, the chrome-plated toy didn't slip in easily. Scott had picked up a half-empty bottle of lubricant from Martin's wooden den of depravity, and I squirted these over the plug before I pressed it against my hole.

It slipped in my greased hands, but it on my second attempt I had the toy pressing against my insides

It didn't fill me like my biggest toys, but it was a satisfying firmness inside of me. I moved, and I felt it shift, and it sent a shiver across my spine.

The map was of a site plan of the factory. Four main buildings of various sizes housed the assembly lines, and someone had helpfully added a red arrow to the edge of one of the car parks, which I guessed was the coal store.

The five stars were all over the map, with the final point near the entrance to the site. There was no way I could move about the complex without being seen, and I tentatively opened the wooden door to the shed.

The hum of the machinery and a few shouts in the distance was all I heard. Behind the car park, for about twenty metres was a line of thick trees until the boundary to the site. The nearest yellow star was about thirty metres away at the neck of the large gravel, which contained just a handful of other vehicles. I hesitated, and with nobody in sight, I ran barefoot down the length of the car park.

Seven or eight seconds was all it took, but it felt like a lifetime. The butt-plug slammed against my insides as I sprinted to the gap in the trees, which led to a small clearing on the edge of the site. On the tree trunk, someone had nailed a yellow wooden star to the bark. On the floor lay a pair of forest green Wellington Boots.

I looked behind me. Anyone driving into the car park would see me through the gap in the trees. Anyone on the second or third storey of the factory building could see a man in the clearing, if they stared out of the window. But the poem was clear, and I put my legs six inches apart, bent over and spread my buttocks.

I counted to thirty. It felt like an age, and I was certain I rushed it towards the end, but it was a level of exposure I had not done before. My heart pounded, my imagination flooded with fear and excitement. What if someone called the Police? How would I explain myself?

The Wellington Boots were old, and a size too big, but they were a godsend. I looked at the map and realised that the line of trees extended around most of the boundary. The next nearest star was also on the perimeter and was in the far top right of the site plan.

With the boots, I could walk within the vegetation without cutting my feet open. I trekked between the oaks, maples and limes. In places my route was overgrown with bushes, but I was able to traverse the western boundary fence before walking across the northern edge of the site. At one point I was really close to a factory building, but I heard nothing except the throbbing of the heavy machinery.

When I reached the second spot, I stayed in the sparse hedge. Directly opposite the wooden yellow star, and within twenty metres of the bushes, was the smoking shelter and two burly machinists were enjoying a cigarette chatting.

Timing was key. I waited for ten minutes. As one employee left, another replaced them. I quietly urinated in the plants as I patiently lingered in the undergrowth before the final smoker vacated the shelter and I leapt out from the bush and displayed my stuffed rosebud to the world.

I hoped that it would be no-one, but that was too much to hope for. I knew that these yellow stars fastened to the trees meant something, and that there would be no way that someone wasn't watching somewhere. My loins tingled at the prospect.

I finished my task with moments to spare, as another smoker walked out of the side door and into the shelter. In my haste, I hadn't noticed a black and white jockstrap hanging from a tree branch, and I slipped further into the woods to slip it over my legs and up my thighs.

The next star was further along the eastern boundary, and the trees thinned. The main road ran alongside the site, and the chain link fencing and sparse bushes were all that separated me from the footpath beside the arterial route.

I had long stopped feeling the chill. Adrenaline was rampant, and I had to weave and dive between the undergrowth and bushes, while keeping a respectful distance between the factory car parks and buildings, and the five foot high mesh fencing and the road.

The next star was in the middle of a small stream. A fence post in the brook protruded above the ankle deep water, and upon that was a black cap with pink writing. As there was nobody in sight, I spread my cheeks and counted to thirty, before grabbing the hat and splashing through the creek in my Wellingtons.

Icy cold water splattered onto me, but it was refreshing. My body ached and my mind was ablaze with dirtiness of it.

The fourth star was near the site entrance, and I slipped the cap on without reading the pink text on the front. The map suggested that the stream which ran between two of the factories, would take me directly to the star and I looked along the watercourse. It was at least three feet lower than the ground and the car park. A little bridge transported vehicles over the top of it, and unless someone was next to the brook, I could duck and run in the stream in the boots without being seen.

The air underneath the little bridge was cold and dank. I had to squat to make it, and the pungent smell was disgusting. Walking between the two brick buildings, that were touching distance either side of me, scared me. I could hear the machines and machinists. The monotonous bark of the plant and the shouting of dedicated employees came through the open windows inches from me as I navigated the stream as quickly as I could. I reached the path at the front of the two largest factories and as I ducked underneath a second bridge; I heard voices.

Two women chatting as they walked from one building to another. I pressed my body against the brick underneath them as their heels clattered on the wooden bridge and took some deep breaths. I cursed Scott once more and waited for thirty seconds, before I continued past the second hall to a small green near the front of the site. On the tree, Scott (or his accomplice) had hung a white T-shirt that I grabbed and pulled over my torso.

The star was on a tree stump on the bank of the stream, in bright sunshine. As I stood next to it, directly facing me was the main entrance to the factory I had just walked alongside, and to my left was the security hut next to the gates on the road into the site.

I took a deep breath, climbed out of the stream, and crouched on my haunches. It wasn't as explicit as my other yellow star tasks, but if anyone looked closely, they would see that I was proudly displaying my buttplug.

My heart rate didn't drop. It was daring enough for me. The last star was near the security hut, and I walked along the stream a little further. I took a moment to glance at my T-shirt to read "I Suck Cock" in big pink writing.

"Tit!" I muttered, thinking of Scott, and saw a reference to the diminutive nature of the size of my endowment on the cap. I turned the T-shirt inside out, but could do nothing about the hat.

The stream ran underneath the fence on the southern boundary, and the company had installed a wooden barrier to prevent anyone from climbing under the perimeter fence. It meant I had to clamber into the grass verge alongside the largest car park.

I could see people in the distance, and the security hut was just twenty metres away. I got some cover from the trees and bushes, and edged my way to the main entrance. I spied the security guard in his shelter from the thick bushes, but he was reading his newspaper. They had pinned the yellow star on the tree above me.

I squatted once more to display my butt-plug to anyone watching from the factory, while watching the security guard chuckling at his tabloid. Thirty seconds felt like an eternity, before I slipped back in the bushes and noticed another envelope nailed to the tree.

Perhaps this is your final task?

Or perhaps we have some more.

Find on the site

A purple and orange door.

In this hut is a man,

Who hasn't come for years.

So be a good Samaritan

And give him some cheers.

Leave the toy in your ass,

We know you like it really,

But hurry to the door.

You have some desperate willy.

The guy you want may require,

A blowjob or a screw.

Just give him what he needs

Or you'll lose the next clue.

You're getting pretty close,

To finishing our little game.

And we know you've had some fun

Because you feel no shame.

I could not remember a purple and orange door as I had navigated the complex, and looked around at the factory buildings and security hut from within the vegetation that hid me. I glanced at the map, and then at the vista once more. There were two corners of the site, I had not really seen anything of, and I kept to the southern perimeter and the bushes as I slogged my way around through the vegetation.

Tucked away in the far south-eastern corner was a large Portakabin and the purple door had an orange surround.

A laminated A4 paper, nailed to the hut, read "Groundskeeper." Two women walked to their car, chatting, only a few feet away from me, and I waited until amongst the undergrowth was silence before I sprinted from the cover of the trees, along the muddy path and up the four steps.

The door squeaked as it opened. My heart pounded as I did not know who would expect me.

"Good God! Well, I've seen everything now."

The voice came from a man in front of a row of tools, manipulating a brass valve on a small length of metal pipe. He was balding, overweight, easily in his late-fifties or early sixties and wore a gold chain around his neck.

"Sorry, I was told to come here."

"Ahh, that girl. She's funny." I passed him the poem from the envelope in my hand and he guffawed as he finished it. He spoke with a Northern accent. "Virginia, I think. Her car wouldn't start and I fixed it for her. She came with a few bottles of beer to say thank you the following day and we had a chat over a cuppa. Do you want a drink while you are here?"

I nodded, and he flicked the switch on his faded yellow kettle. "It said you hadn't come for years."

He gulped, hummed and sighed. "My wife died eight years ago from Cancer. I keep having these thoughts I want to explore, and that Internet which my grandchildren have installed in my house has all sorts of things on it. So she came by earlier and dropped off that bag. Said a man would come for it and only to give it to him when I was satisfied. I guess that's you."

"Yes." He poured boiling water into two cups and without asking dropped a dollop of milk into each one. I blew on the top when he passed to me.

He nervously smiled and then glanced away, embarrassed. Inside, I cursed Virginia, as I didn't know what to do or say. The guy had things he needed to discuss and resolve, but he acted anxious when he looked at me. I wasn't a psychologist, and I sat, drinking my boiling drink in an anxious silence. Waiting for him to say something. "Are you a poof, then?"