Messy Surprise 1

I recently wrote a story called "The Surprise" - a non-consensual story with a twist. I deliberately picked a vague title, and so I will try to write a different tale under each of Literotica's twenty-five writing categories with the same inspiration over the next year. This is Number Eleven.

* * * * *

Technically, I was at work. I had done nothing but work for weeks since my last relationship came to a messy end. It was what I did whenever I had a break-up, I turned my hand to my role in the family firm and threw myself head first into my employment.

Extra meetings with clients, additional trips to visit customers, and anything to avoid being alone in my house in the evening. I used my career as a therapy.

That evening, I sat with my third free beer, watching the men in the newly refurbished gay bar enjoy themselves while I "worked."

My occupation was a sales and relationship director for a 125-year-old brewery that produced a dozen beers from our two sites. A new customer had swapped ten 9 gallon barrels of our finest IPA and amber bitter for "sponsorship of their relaunch." The establishment prominently displayed our logo throughout the converted pub, as a couple of hundred revellers - mostly men - socialised and danced on the upper floor.

Over twenty LGBT bars and pubs in the area served our beer. We ran beverage tents in five Pride events too, and while I've never come out to my three elder brothers as bisexual, they know. I don't hide the signs, even if I have never publicised my sexuality. I don't talk about my personal life at work and my family have never probed too deeply about my "partners."

I adore building relationships with all the pubs, inns, and taverns in the area. I know 320 landlords by name, and I ensure our beers remain well stocked at competitive prices. My family thinks I have a peaceful life, but we brewed over 35,000 barrels of beer last year, and I shifted over a third of that.

But it's a Wednesday, and I have been to Liverpool, Warrington, Rochdale and Macclesfield since rising at 7am, as well as the brewery site, before changing into my promotional T-shirt and travelling on public transport to the new opening of the gay pub in a Mancunian suburb, with a hundred pieces of branded clothing for the landlord.

I got a seat at the end of the bar; it was standing room only for anyone entering after 7pm and I conversed warmly with dozens of patrons. I wasn't "on the pull" but sought a social night out, a few miles from my home.

"Same again?" the landlord asked, nodding towards my empty glass.

"Ahh, go on," I replied. "It's hard work!"

He chuckled as he poured me another free pint from the 700 pints I'd given him in the barrels. When he put the full drink on the branded beer mat, he gestured towards a man waiting at the bar beside me. "Ben, this is James from Robertson's Beers."

He was over six feet in height, tall and reasonably slender, with an unruly mop of dark black hair and sparkling white teeth. I held out my hand, unsure of the reason for the introduction. "Hi!"

"Your IPA is nice," he said. It wasn't a local accent. "I ... err ... run a campsite in Cheshire. What's the price for bottles?"

"He's another of our sponsors for tonight," the landlord added, swapping Ben's empty glass for a full drink. I glanced at the large banner across the top of the bar and recognised the other company name beside our own.

"Ahh, Bankhall Farm?" I asked. "I've heard of that."

"Yeah. My dad set it up three years ago, but he died a few months ago, so I run it now."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

He hummed. "It was unexpected. We're a gay cruising site and we host men every Thursday to Monday. We have a small bar and we usually go to the wholesaler, but I'd love to know whether we can do better than lagers and mass produced bitters. I want to be local produce only, eventually."

I looked into the welcoming eyes of the businessman, guessing that he was my age - in his late twenties or early thirties, and my libidinous mind danced to his physique underneath his baggy shirt. "I am sure we can do something. What did you want? What sort of quantity?"

"I guess we go through eighty to hundred bottles every weekend. Sometimes a little more."

"We have six different beers we sell in 500ml bottles, and they vary from £8.69 to £19.10 for twelve. We do cans too and offer some discounts for higher volumes, but you'd not be eligible for those with the numbers you're talking about." I looked around the pub and saw a small vacant table in the corner. "Shall we go chat?"

"Yeah, lets."

I never made business decisions when I had been drinking, for obvious reasons, but I warmed to the friendly man as we discussed a possible commercial relationship. The village his campsite was close to a public house that the brewery owned, and I floated the idea of setting up an account with weekly deliveries every Monday afternoon.

"I have a wholesaler coming this Friday for this weekend, but next week, I'd like that!" He grinned. "Do I get a branded tee too?"

"I have a spare." I flashed a smile. "If I get to see you put it on!" I opened my rucksack and passed him the black garment, watching as he pulled his Manchester Pride shirt over his head.

The tight stomach with a smattering of trimmed hair over his athletic body was sexy. He smiled at my eyes checking him out. "You a top or a bottom?"

"Versatile," I replied, answering an unasked question about my sexuality, although as I licked my lips at his physique he knew I wasn't straight.

"Top, normally." His gifted shirt slid over his topless torso, hiding his frame from my gaze. He took his pint to his lips and sipped it. "After this, I have to go. I need to catch the last train back to Cheshire and don't go late into the evening. Wanna come and see my campsite?" He swigged again. "You can stay overnight."

I gulped. "That'll be cool." It had been ten weeks since I had picked up a stranger in a bar, and she had been an incredible one-night stand, but the married beauty sought nothing more than a few hours of naughtiness that she filmed and sent to her humiliated husband, a cuckold. I was bisexual and flitted between sexualities for my overnight dalliances; she'd ensnared me as I fancied a bit of pussy for the first time in two years. The break-up with my past boyfriend had still pained me at the time, and I needed some female attention after the eighteen-month whirlwind male-only relationship.

We finished our drinks and left the pub. The amble to the station in the cool nighttime air was short, and I bought a single ticket to Goostrey. He sat beside me on the train, squeezing and rubbing my jeans as we speared through the shadowy countryside to the tiny rural village. His campsite was a ten-minute walk from the remote station, in the dark, along country lanes. Bankhall Farm - a white building set back from the narrow hedge-lined carriageway - shone in the moonlight. Ben unlocked the front door of the well-decorated property, and took me to his bedroom on the upper floor, with sloping roofs.

His room was immaculate; a large double bed that looked out over his campsite. "You have a wonderful house."

"Yeah," he muttered, putting his hands on my waist and tugging at my T-shirt. I gazed into his eyes and I did the same to him, pulling his gifted garment to his shoulders.

Topless, we kissed as we fumbled with our trousers. Our lips meshed and our tongues caressed as our hands explored our semi-naked bodies. "I love a boy in briefs," he whispered, feeling my hard cock stretching my thin, red underwear.

He knelt before me, sliding down my body, and he pushed my underwear to my ankles. I felt his hot breath on my length and he took my prick in his mouth. Hot, wet and delicious; his tongue rolled around my head and I moaned, running my hands through his hair.

Ben had experience. He bobbed on my shaft as his fingers massaged my balls, drawing groans of enjoyment from my lips.

I pulled him to his feet and kissed him deeply, pushing him onto the mattress and pulling his trousers and underwear to his ankles to swiftly discard. My cock was not small, but Ben was thicker and longer than my prick, and his circumcised dick looked delicious. He saw the lust in my eyes as I leaned over the foot of the bed and rolled my tongue over his hairless balls.

Salty and exquisite. I smelt his masculinity, as my mouth worked its way over his sensitive orbs, and along his shaft, kissing his frenulum.

"Oh, that's nice," he grunted, as I sucked on his tip, enjoying the taste of his musky pre-cum oozing from his erect prick. I took my time, sliding my lips over his length before I teased his balls once more, sucking each one gently.

My hands glid effortlessly over his muscular thighs; his days on the campsite had built his strength. He read my mind, as I imagined the vigorous pounding the brawny host would deliver. "I wanna tap that arse of yours," he muttered.

I needed little persuasion to replace him on the bed, and he smothered his fingers in lubricant. His wet touch slid down my crack, slipping a finger into me. Gently, one became two, as he stretched me, sending frissons of pleasure through my body.

The slow, warming thrust of his fingers left me panting and squirming as he pressed against my prostate, rubbing the sensitive spot of blissful sensuality that squeezed pre-cum from my leaking prick.

He used his left forearm against the backs of my knees to press my thighs into my chest, and present my hole to him. His fingers scissored into me, drawing gasps and groans. "You alright, James?"

"Yes!" I itched for more. My trembling body was alive with his touch. He removed his hand briefly, and I glanced to watch him unfurl a condom over his prick.

"You need this?" He said.

"Please," I mumbled. He drizzled lubricant over his covered cock and touched my rosebud. I groaned, closing my eyes as his wrists pressed against my calves. With one steady thrust, Ben's sizeable prick slid into my stretched hole, burying himself to the hilt.

My body shuddered, groaning as he ground his hips before he picked his pace. Deep thrusts spearing into me. I stared into his eyes as he pummelled his prick into my butt. Powerless to resist as he fucked me, I grabbed my cock and played with it. His dick hammered against my sensitive spots as I panted and groaned.

So close.

He was approaching that point too. He pounded into me, smashing his flesh against mine as my orgasm swelled. I yelled as my climax ripped through me, as his cock pulsed, filling the condom with his warm seed.

Ben beamed; I'd covered my chest with splashes of cum, and my hole ached as he withdrew his prick.

Sometimes I was a little self-conscious after sex, especially with a new partner, but Ben smiled warmly and we cleaned ourselves in his bathroom. Naked, we curled up in his bed, and his hand nuzzled my butt as we drifted to sleep in his large double bed.

* * * * *

The following day, the annoyed sigh of a woman standing at the foot of his bed awoke us. "Honestly Ben," she cried, waking the two sleeping lovers from our slumber. "We have jobs to do. We got people arriving from midday!"

She was short, in her mid twenties and with long, brown hair scraped back into a ponytail. She wore a white vest and green cargo pants, with chunky tan boots that gave her a rugged, adventurous look.

My sexual partner groaned, stretching in his bed. "Yeah, be up soon, Lauren." He rubbed his face as she left and apologised for the intrusion. "Let me show you around the site."

We ate a cereal breakfast and took mugs of tea into the grounds of Bankhall Farm. We passed the office, washrooms and "play barn" -- or clubhouse - and entered the three acre camping field. Over three dozen mobile homes and a handful of caravans were arranged around a pond with some water-loving vegetation in the centre of the space. "Space for forty tents too," he boasted. "And a few camper vans."

"Nice," I muttered, glancing over my shoulder to see movement. "Who's Lauren?"

"Ahh, my step-sister," he explained, and opened the door to the large clubhouse, a former barn. "My dad divorced my mum when I was two and shacked up with this Scottish lass who already had a baby."

"Lauren?"

"Yeah. So they were together for twelve or so years and then split when my old man discovered his true sexuality. They were still pretty close, and my dad's will has left this place to me and Lauren. Two-thirds me, one-third her."

"Ah, right."

"She does all the accountancy and admin and stuff, but we often have over a hundred men on site most weekends. This is our messy weekend and we have ninety six confirmed and will probably get another ten or fifteen who come to play. You into WAM?"

"Never played with it. I would try it, though."

He chuckled as he entered the fifty-foot barn. "This is only half-finished. I still need to complete the BDSM Dungeon, Porn Room and Dark Rooms, but we have an enormous hall for fun, and a gloryhole gallery. Plus a bar." We walked into a "room," made with plasterboard partitions, containing a couple of pool tables, the tiny serving counter, and seven mismatched sofas. The lights flickered as the strip lamps warmed up and bathed the space in bright light. "Lauren works the bar in the evenings. It's just bottles and cans." He shuddered when he showed me the mass-produced, tasteless lager that his venue stocked, delivered every Friday from their general stockist.

"Let me have your e-mail address and we'll set up an account for you. Order by Saturday noon and when the guys deliver to the Red Moon on the Monday run, they can swing by here. I can waive the delivery fee for the time being."

We discussed business, and I left the venue with a promise of a new customer. I knew I'd like to visit the campsite again, both to maintain my new professional relationship and to expand upon a unique sexual friendship with the proprietor. He wasn't the first of my customers who I'd bedded, but it was definitely the best fuck I'd had in years.

On Friday, I received a panicked phone call from Ben; their stockist could not deliver their beer, and would there be any way I could assist? I was at the brewery for a meeting and said I would bring a few boxes after leaving work. He told me to collect an overnight bag and a few changes of old clothes, and I sensed an undercurrent of lust in his voice.

I quietly chatted with our logistics manager and took the remaining boxes of our festive ale, a discontinued line, as well as some of our standard stock. He helped load them into the boot of my car and two hours later, I parked my vehicle in Ben's private driveway and called him from my phone. He came out of his house moments after I made the call.

"There's over three hundred 330 mill cans," I said to the topless manager.

"Jesus. Thanks. How much do we owe you?"

"It won't be much. I grabbed the discontinued lines, mostly." I passed him a tin of the Santa-branded beer, and he chuckled.

"Ideal for those with a Grandaddy fetish!"

"Shall we say seventy-five pence a can? But as I'll drink a few on the house while I'm here, so call it seventy?"

He smiled. "Sure."

"Actually, call it sixty. I do quite like the festive ale! I might have a few."

He chuckled. "Thanks. We'll knock 'em out at one twenty each or five for a fiver, then!" It took us a couple of trips to carry the trays of alcohol to Lauren at the bar, and Ben showed me to his room, telling me to change into just shorts, underwear and a T-shirt. "Or less. No shoes needed as it's all grass. Then mingle. Everyone's friendly."

Even with a casual attire, I felt overdressed. Dozens of men - of all ages - were on the site in the warm early evening. A few guys wore sportswear, or just a T-Shirt and shorts like me. A handful were topless or bottomless, and a fit twink donned wrestling lycra as he drank from a can of fizzy drink. But many were naked, showcasing their nude bodies in the British sunshine.

Hairy and hairless. Fat, thin and toned. Young and old. The campsite and the bar were awash with relaxing laughter, wide smiles, and conviviality. Everyone was welcoming. I ambled from the clubhouse across the site, meeting couples and groups outside motor homes, tents and caravans.

There was plenty of bed hopping too; we watched a young man become the centre of a bukkake session, and another throng ran a train on a twink with a caged prick as his master directed the action on the submissive. It flitted between the nude, relaxed, friendly chatter and the lewd, wanton group sex.

It felt like a utopia.

At 8pm, a bell rang from the clubhouse across the site. "What's up?" I asked.

"You won't want to miss this!" The twink with at least seven loads leaking from his butthole said, jumping from his seated position on the grass. "It's the initiation!"

Those words should have sent an icy chill down my spine, but the gleeful excitement in his voice and the general movement of men towards the bar dissipated my fears. A pilgrimage, almost, to Ben and Lauren's clubhouse.

My host had never shown me the "big room." Occupying half of their ex-barn, the vast space was undecorated, with bare concrete on the floor and unfinished walls. But in the centre of the room, he'd placed a large paddling pool, and filled three wallpaper paste tables with messy items.

Ben made eye contact with me, smiling. He played the emcee well as we filtered into the space. Many drank cans from the bar, and I noticed that my company's beer had been popular.

Ben held a blue loudspeaker in front of his mouth, causing his words to echo in the spartan room. "So, welcome to another Messy Weekender. We have seven people who have never been here before, so, who wants to do an initiation on them to get this weekend started?"

He read from a scrap of paper. "Let's start with Pierre, Callum and Owen!" I smiled as three young men dressed in just their underwear - all friends holidaying together - shrieked and bounded towards the host. I watched them smash cream pies into their faces and cover their half-naked bodies in sticky, messy foodstuffs. It was hot, and I felt a stirring in my briefs. I'd want to play with Ben later.

When Sammy, Zak and Muhammad replaced them, I left the room to go to the bar. It's not that they were older men - almost bears - but I wanted a drink, and I took a can of our festive beer. I spoke to Lauren for a few minutes, enjoying her company, before returning to the main space to see the three hairy guys covered in the mess.

"And lastly for our initiation, we have James Robertson. Now, he's come to deliver beer, so give him a warm hand." Ben laughed as I froze, holding my can of ale and staring at him in disbelief. "And let's have a proper Messy Weekender Welcome!"

I was on autopilot as I walked barefoot towards the paddling pool, splattered with mess. My feet stepped through wetness as I approached the grinning emcee. "I don't have that many clothes."

"Good. I want you naked most of the weekend," he replied to a raucous cheer.

"And I've never got messy before."

"Ahh, then you're in for a treat." My senses became hypersensitive as I looked around me. Surrounded by a baying mob, eager to use some of their depleted supplies on me. The filthy friends watched, smiling through their creamed faces and with their befouled bodies dripping muck onto the bare concrete floor. "Who wants to break James's virginity?" He asked, as my right foot slipped in the greasy pool.

I didn't have time to process anything. The cold pie pressed against my face, pushing my head backwards. Gunge forced itself up my nostrils and into my mouth, and I closed my eyes as the goo slid over my skin.

And then another and another. Mess dropped onto my T-shirt and into the pool as the random men took a pie from the table and pressed it into my face. I had to blow a hole through the cream to breathe.