The Summerhouse Ch. 15: Stephen

The following week was just as manic.

Clare spent Sunday evening at the bowling alley in a short-skirt with two of the waiters, both brothers, from the village pub and then enjoyed the night at their flat in the town centre. Martin and Victoria attended a couples orgy at their sex club, and on Monday our hosts entertained two of Victoria's friends from school. I'd met Stephen and Charlotte briefly before, but they were doing a ten-day trip around Britain, and were spending the week in Cheshire.

When they arrived, Victoria warmly hugged her friend, before eyeing her partner, stood in just a collar and a leather posing pouch which stretched over his chastity cage. The hostess smiled and embraced him. "Good to see you again," she beamed. "Both of you, it's been so long!"

"You too. You look so healthy," he replied, grinning.

Victoria smirked, kneed him in the crotch, grabbed him by the throat and threw him onto his back on the grass lawn outside. Her short skirt was hitched to her waist, and she urinated over the startled man's face, laughing as she did. "I have a fourteen inch strap-on for you later, and I got Clare to bottle her piss all week," she announced.

"Thank you," he said.

"Yeah, I'm going to make you cry so fucking bad. It's been months since you've come to visit me." She turned to Charlotte. "Hot-tub, my dear?"

"I'd love to."

"Stephen, take your bags up, have a shower and you can wear what I've put on your bed for you."

We left the foursome to catch up together, and we walked into the village to visit the local inn, enter their pub quiz. The waiter who served us smiled when he saw Clare and the brazen nineteen-year-old was happy to take my fiancée to the disabled toilet at the end of the evening for twenty minutes.

When we returned to the house, Stephen was staked out in the grass, an adult nappy around his waist and a gas mask on his head. He was writhing and thrashing as his wife watched, laughing.

"He has a litre piss enema and an XXL butt plug," Victoria explained. "I've poured Raw Chilli extract into his cock cage and he's had a beating!" It was way, way too much for me, and I made my excuses and returned to the summerhouse.

Tuesday night was a little different. After I helped Martin clear the table and clean the dining room, I was summoned to the dungeon. Clare, wearing just a black leather corset and a smile, held a paddle. "We've neglected that side of our relationship," she muttered, and pointed towards the restraints affixed to the wall.

Spread-eagled, naked and pressed against a cold brick in Victoria's unwelcoming dungeon put me in a compromising position. I knew what was coming.

I closed my eyes and took deep, slow breaths. Relaxing my body, clearing my mind. Focussing on nothing and drifting away.

The first strike echoed around the dungeon. It warmed my skin, and I mewed. Gentle strokes. Loving hits of wifely discipline that radiated contentment.

I adored the firm smacks of her weapon against my exposed flesh. My mind was in another place, my buttocks enjoyed every touch of her leather paddle rhythmically landing on my skin.

"You like that, huh?" Clare asked, but my immobile body didn't reply. She doubled the power into her strikes. The sound of leather on butt and my grunting echoed in the stone dungeon. My cries filled the room as she struck faster and harder.

And then she smashed the paddle deep against me. Searing pain erupted in my buttocks, and my screams energised my fiancée as she swatted my flesh with renewed abandon. The stinging in my tensed muscles intensified as she grunted with every smack.

"Clare," I called out. "It hurts."

"It's supposed to," she replied and smashed the paddle into my buttocks several times in quick succession. "Your skin's gone rather pink."

"It really stings."

"Good," Clare added with a sadistic glee to her voice. "Making men scream gets makes me so playful and horny. You know that!"

Clare squealed as the weapon whacked my flesh once more; I yelled in pain with every hit. My breathing became a desperate pant and tears rolled down my cheeks.

"That's good," Victoria called out. "But you need this one now." I tried to look, but both of the dominant women were directly behind me. I tensed and waited. I felt movement and tensed as I felt a fierce crack against my skin.

My nerves erupted into excruciating agony. It felt like Clare had pressed a sizzling poker against my reddened flesh. White hot, blistering pain from a high-pitched smack. The second hit left my head spinning, and I begged for Clare to stop. "Please, it hurts. Please, Clare. Please."

"I don't hear no safeword," Victoria taunted, and the third strike caused my body to convulse. I bucked my hips, bounced on my toes and writhed as I screamed in sheer agony and sobbed against the rough brickwork.

These were the most painful, agonising, distressing hits that I had ever experienced.

And the torment continued. I begged and implored Clare to stop. I beseeched her to show mercy, but she persisted to smash the painful rod against my skin. "One word," Victoria called out. "Just one word."

But it never came. I never uttered my safeword as Clare peppered my backside with painful strikes. Every hit yielded more explosions of intense agony on my scarlet flesh.

"Perfect," Victoria called, and the sadist unfastened my hands. I rubbed my blistered arse, and the millionaire slapped them away. "Nicely done, Clare."

"That really hurt."

"It was supposed to," Victoria spat in my ear. "Now go tidy your summerhouse. We're going to use our paddles, canes and strapons on Stephen, but you are welcome to stay if you want more punishment." I shook my head. "I want to see Stephen blubber, as that has always made my pussy tingle. We will show him no mercy!"

* * * * *

On Wednesday, my work was interrupted by Martin and Stephen cramming themselves in the little room above the summerhouse. As I tried to ascertain the bugs in my code, the excited voices of the two married men permeated my thought process.

"Victoria wants to know if you and Clare are coming tonight," Martin told me as I put my wireless headphones on the small desk. "She's text Clare, but there is no answer."

"Where are you off to?"

Stephen blushed. "It's a gender-bending Vicars and Tarts Party at the Sex Club."

"So you are two are going as tarts? And Victoria is a vicar?"

Stephen beamed. "Yeah."

"I think we'll pass. Unless Clare wants to go." I rang my fiancée, but her phone was turned off, and I watched the cuckolded husbands change into their attire.

Martin was a pretty unconvincing schoolgirl. The burgundy tartan skirt was way too short to be decent, and he flashed his skimpy lingerie that strained against his recently reattached cock cage.

Stephen had a soft face, and he scrubbed up well as Harley Quinn; he had everything: the blonde wig in pigtails, the choker, the tight crop top shirt, skimpy shorts, fake tattoos and torn fishnet stockings. The garish makeup completed the outfit, and I felt almost aroused at the sight.

Clare was late home, having been in board meetings all afternoon, and was tired; we snuggled up to watch a film together. The movie about the life of the Marquis de Sade was fantastically funny, and I just enjoyed spending time with my partner.

I spent the night alone in the summerhouse. Clare and I both had early starts, and when Victoria and Charlotte returned from their club, they continued their sordid games in the dungeon. It was weird and lonely sleeping without a partner, and the cool lodge felt unwelcoming when I fell asleep.

Martin and Stephen came after breakfast, and they showed me the lesions and welts caused by their vicious partners. Martin's thighs, butt and upper back were crimson with deep lacerations, while Stephen's skin was a streaked purple. It was a discipline that went beyond what I could tolerate.

Early morning conference aside, I had a calm and peaceful day. I was able to concentrate on my work as the multi-millionaire and his friend travelled to the sauna to explore the gloryholes. The venue was a particular favourite of the Londoner, and Martin was keen to satisfy his urges.

After tea, the six of us settled in the lounge with our drinks. The crackling gas fire warmed the room, and the three men sat on the floor as the women spread out on the couch and armchairs.

"Charlotte," Victoria asked. "When was the last time Stephen squirted his little thing?"

The Londoner. "Ten days ago. He had a prostate massage. Why, do you ask?"

She looked at Stephen with raised eyebrows. "No cummies at the sauna?"

"No, Victoria."

"OK. Martin and Jon, if you can make Stephen come in the thirty minutes without touching his butt, his cock or using any toys, then we'll have an evening in the hot-tub. If you fail, I'll take all of you down to my dungeon."

"But he has a cage on," I moaned, pointing to the metal frame around his dick.

"Another obstacle. You are not to touch his pee-pee or his poo-poo," she teased. "But if you don't want the challenge, I'll just take you all down now. I have a new cane and I liked it last night. I could use it a little more."

"That does sound fun," Clare added, smirking at my horrified face. "I saw the marks on them all. Was there a lot of screaming when you came back?"

"Lots," Victoria replied. "It was great fun!"

How was Martin and I supposed to extract an orgasm from a chaste man without using his prostate? The women cackled and emptied the remaining wine from the bottle into their glasses as Stephen shuffled across the carpet to where Martin and I sat.

"I... I need butt play," he muttered.

"OK," I hummed. "Let's try this." Stephen was slight and thin, and I pulled him backwards, so he landed on top of me. My hands rolled his nipples between my thumb and forefinger as my lips whispered in his ear. "Suck his balls," I demanded of Martin.

Stephen rested his head on my shoulder. Victoria's husband laid on the floor and pushed his face into the crotch of the slender cuckold. He smelt and felt feminine in my arms. His skinny, lithesome frame and use of female toiletries misled my senses.

This was no nubile, lissome beauty that I had been told to massage. The person was not a dainty woman but an effeminate husband, that Martin and I were trying to spur into a squealing climax.

Like Martin had once done. One morning, my host he had forced my dick to squirt by sucking on my testicles, and I hoped the soft rolling of his nipples between my fingers, as well as Martin's warm, wet tongue, would take him over the edge.

He bit his lip and sighed I blew softly against his skin, and kissed his neck; he squealed as we tried to sensually stimulate the submissive. Gentle groans as Martin and I made progress.

He squirmed in my hands; he grunted and snorted as Martin's tongue probed the smooth contours of his abused balls and I softly rubbed his erect nipples. He writhed under our touch; my firm cock dug into his back as he twisted his hips and rocked his body.

He blew as he exhaled, swearing loudly my lips kissed the nape of his neck and I gently nibbled at his skin with my teeth. He wriggled against me. Stephen panted, groaned and his cage jerked, before a slither of white cum trickled from his imprisoned cock. Victoria snickered and rose from her seat with her empty wine glass.

"Twelve minutes," Victoria called as she knelt beside the three of us. She grabbed her husband by the back of the neck and pushed his face into the globules of thick, white liquid dribbling down his cock. "OK, a bet's a bet," she added, and the elegant woman opened the sideboard, and took out three black bags. "This is yours," she said as she threw the bag to me.

Martin caught the next package. "Is this...?" He muttered.

"Yes, dirty cucks should wear costumes in my hot-tub," she called and Stephen received the final black carton.

Inside my bag, Victoria had placed a deep yellow metallic leotard. I felt subconscious as I slipped my feet through the holes and the women giggled mercilessly as we changed into our female swimming attire.

The outfit Martin received was considerably more embarrassing. The neon pink bikini looked ridiculous on him, as he was without a suitable bosom to fill the top half. The skimpy bottom bulged around his reattached chastity cage, but he simply grinned as he posed in front of his wife and guests. Stephen's side-tie leopard-print G-String never even caused him to blush. Even when his wife gathered us together to take a photograph that she sent to her friends, Stephen beamed broadly.

He adored the power play dynamics and the domination, with the disdain, ridicule and contemptuous derision shown by our female partners feeding his lust and not his embarrassment.

He could feel no shame. "Go ahead. There are worse pictures of me on the net," he casually said, when Victoria threatened to upload it to a public gallery.

I didn't doubt it for a second.

* * * * *

I used my Friday day-off to surprise Clare. I got Martin to drive me to the station after helping him clean the house and arrived at my fiancee's office at just before lunchtime with a giant bouquet and a box of twelve doughnuts gourmet for her colleagues.

She beamed when she saw me and introduced me to the eight members of the remote learning company's Manchester office. "Can I take you to lunch?" I asked.

"I have a call in ten minutes until one thirty. You wait until then," Clare demanded. "Oh, go help Nick and Kat. Their computers have been playing up this week and we can't get anywhere from Tech Support."

Nick was a middle-aged and balding man with a golfing jumper, and Kat was a young woman, fresh from college. Their computer issues were simple, and easily fixed, and Clare smiled as I sat with them, drinking tea and pointing at the computers.

"What's she like as a boss?" I asked as the two employees selected doughnuts from the tray. "Crack the whip much?"

"She's going to be our boss when Marie retires," Nick replied. "But Marie is still here part time. We don't know Clare very well. But she's different." He glanced away and Kat smirked. He left for lunch a few minutes later, and the office junior shuffled her seat over to me.

"What did Clare do to him?" I asked the young woman.

"He made a comment about her clothing once. She had stockings on, and a summer dress. I'm sure you know what outfit I'm talking about. It's a little short but not obscene or owt. She tore his balls off about objectifying women. The next day was Dress Down Friday, and she came into the office in tight black leather skirt, fishnets and he didn't know where to look. She ripped into him over his nudey calendar too, and his filthy mug. We'd complained about his soft porn at work to Marie, and she let it go, but Clare was having none of it. I'd love to have her confidence. She just massacres people, and she always looks so classy. She's 100% in control all the time."

We looked across the office and through the glass at Clare pacing around the meeting room, barking into the conference call telephone. "Yeah, she is," I said.

Clare came out of the call twenty minutes later, as her colleague and I were chatting amicably. "Kat, United Health Yorkshire wants to take a look at the mental health modules for all their staff. They'll get it free for the year to make up for the debacle with their billing, but from January it will need adding to their payment unless they cancel. Enable it on the system, please. And tell Nick that I want that update from Buxton on my desk when I get back from lunch." She grabbed her bag from her chair and slung her tailored coat over her shoulder. "And Kat, excellent work on Williams' Brothers. That's a nice deal you've closed there. Fifth new client you've snared this week, I believe. Cracking!" Kat beamed, and Clare chuckled at her. "Any more and I'd think you were after my job!" She tapped me on the forearm. "Come on then, take me to lunch. I've not got all day."

"See ya, Kat," I muttered, and put my dirty tea cup in their tiny kitchen. Clare's office was close to a highly rated Chinese restaurant and as Cantonese cuisine was her favourite dish, I took my fiancee to the immaculate scarlet-and-gold eaterie.

We looked and acted like any other couple. When I visited the toilet, the other diners were not to know I removed my underwear, and I passed them to Clare under the table. Cuckolds were not allowed boxers, apparently, and she teased me as the thin shorts rubbed against my cock.

I paid the bill and walked with her back to her office. We embraced in the lobby; she pushed her body against mine and pressed me against the wall. "We could get a hotel room," I breathlessly said to her. She kissed my neck and whispered into my ear.

"Yeah, OK. If you know any of my bulls on quick dial."

"We could... y'know?"

"Jon, it's not your birthday and I have work to do. Now if you do want something to do, go to the barbers and get your hair cut. It looks a mess. And make sure there is a lovely bottle of chilled sparkling rose wine waiting for me when I get home."

She smiled, tapped me on the nose, and turned. "See ya later, love," I called after her.

"See ya. Be good. Or else. And thanks for the flowers. And the doughnuts."

And I was left to do the jobs that my hotwife had commanded me to. Like a well-behaved cuck.

* * * * *

I spent the week teasing Bobby by text message about joining us on Saturday for one of the last after-match parties. I suggested that visiting the summerhouse after a football game would give him plenty of oral action without the cost of playing at the sauna.

Eventually, he relented when his other half was offered a babysitting job for the weekend. A couple, whose child she looked after at the childcare centre, were attending a wedding and didn't want to take two overexcited toddlers. When their regular sitter fell ill, they asked the nursery if Heather, the youngest child's favoured nurse, would be available.

Heather, delighted at the overtime, agreed and this left her partner at a loose end for the afternoon and evening. I called it fate, he called it horniness. Either way, at a little after midday, Martin and I were joined by two more bisexual harlots.

Stephen was a wiry, youthful man who worked with his father as an accountant. He was no taller than 5ft7in tall, and had a quiet, relaxed demeanour about him. Mostly, however, he was a humiliation junkie, a pee drinker, a chastity cage lover and an anal addict. Any person, male or female, who degraded, debased or embarrassed him, would sate his lust. Add in deep, passionate buggery and Victoria's old school friend was in slutty heaven.

We made the ladies lunch as they lounged beside the bubbling hot-tub in translucent sarongs. Martin told me that Charlotte had a steady boyfriend in London, alongside her chaste husband, but when she visited Victoria, it was generally accepted that she was allowed to roam. Essentially, what went on in Cheshire stayed in Cheshire.

Stephen was given a shiny pink pair of frilly bloomers that looked ridiculous on him. His cheeks reddened, and he smiled. Martin wore the same garment, but in blue.

Bobby and I were provided with skimpy black jockstraps to wear by the lady of the house. Charlotte photographed her husband and Martin together, and she giggled as her phone pinged. "Ah, Susie says you look cute. Eva wants to spank you. And Niamh reckons she thinks you need a dummy."

"Now that's an idea," Victoria teased. "But then, how could he suck cock?"

By half-two, Martin and I had shown our pair of summerhouse virgins where everything in the room was kept. We had been warned that there would be plenty of visitors, and the floor-to-ceiling fridge was full of alcohol.

The rumbling of an engine stopped directly behind the wooden structure, and I heard the Coach's voice first. "Luis, Jordan, Stan, Jamie and Charlie. Go get yourselves some married cunt."