The Summerhouse Ch. 18: Epilogue

Bobby sat with his legs apart on the beanbag in front of the hole, watching the CCTV screen beside me. "It'll be worse if he gets his Czech Fantasy, won't it?"

"Oh, God yeah!" My friend laughed. At the end of the plywood wall that divided the one-room cottage into two rooms, was a three-foot section where we had installed no gloryholes and Martin wanted to put a bench and wide aperture, to install a fuck-hole, akin to the porn series that he loved. Both Bobby and I had tried to talk him out of it as he would have little control of how the anonymous men would use him, but he was adamant he needed to build it. Victoria wasn't keen, so spousal disapproval rather than practicalities had kyboshed his idea for the moment. But we all knew it would resurface.

Martin was also planning a much larger summerhouse, although his old venue had continued to play host to the Saturday post-game parties. Since moving to the new property, his sex drive had been unstoppable.

Bobby and I chatted as we watched the CCTV monitor. "Make sure you watch the footage of Heather with Virginia."

"She didn't want me to see her explore her lesbian side. She never does," the young man replied. "Shame, 'cos I'd loved to have been there."

"She really was getting into it."

"Scott'll win his bet then." He smiled at me and sighed. Allowing his partner to play with other men had been one of the toughest adjustments he had made, but Heather had become a lot more adventurous since she had moved in with us at Christmas. "I thought he might."

We saw a car pull into the layby, and two police officers step out of their motor and walk through the open gate in the high fence that marked the boundary of Martin's land. We had erected an "Adults Only, Private Land" sign on the path.

We heard the door creak on the other side of the wooden partition and then close. Bobby and I stared at each other. Was this a trap?

We gulped, and then a smile came over Bobby's face when a thin cock poked through the hole inches from him. He pumped his lubricant bottle and wrapped his wet hand over the dry, pasty shaft before the rod disappeared between his lips.

"Oh, this bitch is good!"

The sound carried, and in the adjacent stall another dick came through an open hole. I lowered myself to wrap my lips around the thick, purple glans and gently suck on the copper's package. Salty, sweaty, masculine nastiness of his stout, abbreviated prick.

"Nah, it was some fags last week. I'm sure."

The police officers never cared who or what gender were sucking on their cocks; I heard some grunts from behind the wall as my mouth massaged the smooth dick protruding from the partition.

I never knew his name. He never knew mine. But that never mattered. I salivated and revered his manhood as my lips brought the man towards his orgasm.

I had done fellatio thousands of times, to hundreds of men; my mouth had enticed pints of cum in the sauna, summerhouse, shelter and sex club. I adored giving head from the moment my mouth had closed over Joseph's dick three years previously.

He enabled me to break my cocksucking virginity, but the overweight cuckold sent me on a journey of debauched discovery. It was addictive. It was my crack cocaine; an incredible drug that I could not stop taking.

The copper groaned, and the first shot of his salty semen landed on my tongue. No man ever tasted alike, and I sucked every drop of his juice.

I wiped my mouth with the side of my hand and sat back. His dick withdrew from the hole. Martin grinned at me; he had finished with his anonymous prick and we watched Bobby lavish love on the other copper.

"That ain't no fag. That's a nasty bitch," the voice called out. Not that it mattered; they would still have pushed their cock through the hole in the wall if they knew it was men, women, transsexuals, transvestites, grannies or whoever on the other side of the partition. Because we gave good head.

Bobby, Martin, myself and all of the desperate submissive cocksuckers who stayed at the B&B adored providing fellatio, and we had the perfect opportunity to do so. I left after servicing another man and stepped into the grounds. My eyes fell upon Clare walking towards the shelter, and my favourite slut embraced me.

"I thought you were with Jason and Willie."

"Wore them out," she replied, and looped her hand into mine. "Willie said he could not screw any more. Although he has quite an engine on him. Jason's still getting some at home, so he's less energetic."

"Right. Well, I wondered if we..."

"... Could go to the pub," Clare finished for me. "It's been a few days since we did something together. And we have some decisions to make for the wedding. We can plan it in the beer garden."

"OK."

"Yeah, and Victoria wants to sort my hen-do. She says it's the job of the Maid of Honour. But if she has her way, I'll be at the altar bo-legged!"

I laughed. "And pregnant. Scott and Bobby are happy to arrange the stag-do."

"Have you told Scott all of his duties?"

"Ahh... he says he cannot fuck you because we are mates."

"Tell him, if he wants to be best man, then it is his job to screw me on the wedding night. And if he doesn't like it, I shall ask Virginia to experiment with that chastity cage again!"

I sighed. "He's very adamant."

"So am I. I want you in the room, handcuffed to the chair, watching your best man fuck your bride. Followed by then the ushers. And then my special guests." My cock surged at the thought. "Victoria had it on her wedding day. Martin watched ten men dump loads inside his new wife. Why can't I have that?"

"I'll speak to him," I promised. We ambled hand-in-hand to our house to dress and then walked to our local pub to share a bottle of wine and arrange the details of our wedding that would make us Mr and Mrs Brownlees; Clare demanded that I took her surname, and I was happy to do so.

We had to agree on the seating plan, finalise the meal options, and ensure that we had planned everything for our August nuptials.

And we looked like every other couple, desperately in love and planning our big day.

We appeared normal.

If only they knew. We had to work ten times harder at our relationship to make it work, but I wouldn't change that for a minute.