We travelled North to Clare's best friend's home in my car. Victoria had insisted we stay at her abode, and few people resisted when the domineering "Lady of the House" demanded it. She had always possessed an inarguable confidence that steamrollered over objections with the merest tone of her voice and a glance from her eyes.
There would be no way Clare, myself, and Clare's partner would check into a hotel near the venue. She could not countenance the idea that her best friend would stay a faceless hotel chain when a beautiful room in her salubrious house, with a double bed, was available for Clare to use. There would be no discussion. It was not imposing on her, or her husband's party. It had been earmarked for us, and we would be using it.
Victoria's husband was a wealthy, successful businessman. His software firm had cornered a minor, but very lucrative niche industry, and he had recently sold his majority stake in his company to a large multinational. Small change for them, but a nine-figure windfall to Mr and Mrs Braithwaite.
He took her name when they wedded. Martin Anthony Kielty became Martin Braithwaite after their ceremony; it was a decision which Clare told me had caused consternation in his conservative family, but Martin did what Victoria desired.
Their home was a detached manor house in the leafy Cheshire countryside. Located just outside an affluent village, their long drive and secluded gardens were perfect for their lifestyle. Victoria opened the front door, dressed in a black-and-white striped Latex bustier, with long black rubber gloves, black fishnets and a white thong. In her hand she held a whip.
Simon's eyes popped as the dominant wife beckoned them into her house. "Clare," Victoria beamed, and threw her arms around my fiancée. "Come in, Jonathan," she said to me. "Long time, no see! Clare's room is first floor, turn right, second door on the left. Clare, come make my husband cry. It's his birthday, he needs special treatment."
Clare chuckled. "Can I use the loo? I really need to pee. It's been such a long journey." Victoria shook her head.
"Excellent. Come feed it to Martin," she laughed, and led my fiancée towards their playroom. "Forty today, make him suffer! And Jon," she called to me. "Make sure Simon is showered and settled in the spare room. And happy. Clare said you've been batting for both teams. I always knew you had it in you!"
The lithe, long-haired woman raised her eyebrows as I blushed. "Well," I stammered. Clare's bull, with his bald head, contoured beard, and bulging muscles, grinned. We both knew what she meant. Simon picked up the largest of the suitcases with more ease than I managed with the smaller one.
The spare room that Clare used had one double bed, a small single bed, a modest en-suite and beautiful view of the village and the valley. When my fiancée visited or travelled to work from the Manchester office, she stayed with her best friend. These trips had become more frequent over the two-and-a-half years at her national firm, and Victoria referred to the Scarlet Room as "Clare's Room."
Explicit photographs lined the wall - lesbian, gay and heterosexual. Erotic drawings were printed onto the duvet and a whole two drawers in the chest were given with rubber sheets, whips, chains, ropes and a handful of sex toys. Condoms and lubes were in a bowl on the bedside table. The television was hooked up to a pornography-laden media server. This was a boudoir, not a bedroom. This was a space for fucking, not sleeping.
For the second time in as many minutes, Simon's eyes widened. He said nothing as he took in the overwhelming room and pointed at a framed photograph on the wall. "Yes, that's Clare," I told him. "And that one is Victoria. She was very fond of him. He went on to play for England."
Simon squinted at the naked sportsman on the end of Victoria's giant black strap-on dildo. "Christ! I never knew he had it in him."
"He had a lot in him that night!" I joked. "Clare described it in immaculate detail. She still remembers the party with the impressionable twenty-year-old footballer, before his marriage to the dainty bubblegum music chart-topper, of course."
"Sure," Simon muttered.
It was possible that the innocent persona of his spouse is an act, and behind the whiter-than-white reputation, that came with children's television, and then in their manufactured high-energy pop band, is a dark, twisted sex drive. But I doubted it. I didn't believe the music industry's pure princess could satisfy him like Victoria did.
We made small talk, and he stepped into the shower, to wash away the sweat and grime from our car journey. I heard the odd scream from another room over the pattering of the water, but my attention was stolen by Simon, dressed in just a towel.
He wasn't bisexual or particularly dominant. Our encounters previously had been sporadic, and he rarely engaged in any sex in my presence. The only couple of times I had touched him was the context of massage, and while he was in the shower, I had assembled the portable massage table, stored in the corner of the room. "This place has everything," he mumbled. "Yeah, OK," he muttered, and placed his towel on the padded table, before lying on it.
The spiced oil was wonderfully scented; Simon grunted as my slippery hands glided over his freshly showered body, gripping and kneading his muscles on his thighs, arms and shoulders.
Clare ensured that I got plenty of practice. My fiancée loved my oiled fingers touching her, and she adored the idea of my lubricated fingers massaging anyone she brought home. Often before sex, sometimes afterwards.
Eric, the married convenience store owner, on the same road as our rented flat, was never permitted by his wife to enjoy the silky, warm cunt of my fiancée, but he did get satisfaction from my soft hands as Clare looked on. The delicate lingam massage always covered my greased hands in his cum. He never told his spouse and did not consider my massages to be cheating.
Simon had stronger red lines. Pressing on his tired muscles and reinvigorating his aching limbs was as far as he wanted me to go. I could not touch his large member, or stray beyond a relaxing massage.
The moment Clare returned to the room, he looked lustfully at her, and pushed me to one side. Her clothes became a pile of discarded garments on the carpet in moments, as the firefighter forced his lips to Clare's and touched her slippery cunt. Whatever Victoria and her submissive husband had done to my fiancée, it had left her excited, horny and well lubricated.
I watched in silence as Simon threw my partner onto the double bed, grabbed her calves and smoothly slipped his stiff prick deep into my love.
No words. No verbal communication. Just eye contact and grunts conveying his sexual expectation and her longing. They said nothing to me. They didn't look at me. I was insignificant. She needed a good fucking, and she rarely sought that from me.
That was Simon's role. It was almost invariably someone else's job to do. As I'd done many times, I watched helplessly as another man furrowed their stiff cock into my girl. Seeing her delight and happiness as they drove her to repeated orgasms while I was left watching and waiting.
My cock stiffened as it always did. My mind swirled with a burning humiliation and deep satisfaction. Every grunt, groan and squeal from my fiancée caused me to smile more. Each squeak of the bed springs, or slap of flesh, was a further reminder of their sinful, carnal performance in front of my gaze. The lightly spiced aroma of the massage oil hung gently in the air as they fucked.
Simon did not degrade me while he cuckolded me. Clare had other lovers that did that. He showed his alpha virility with the act of fornication. He didn't want me to lick his balls, or kiss his buttcheeks like Drew. He did not permit me to lavish love on my fiancée's clit as he speared his prick into her unguarded cunt, like Adam or Peter. He wouldn't demand that my fingers guided his magnificent member into my woman, or clean his cum from his prick when he was done, like Kyle or Daffyd. Or to fluff him like Reuben.
Simon merely made me watch. From the other side of the room. And ignored me. I had no physical place in their fun, I offered nothing. I was useless and unneeded in the act of sexually satisfying my fiancée, until he had finished.
It was a huge humiliation. The burning embarrassment caused me to squirm relentlessly with every pound of his prick into my gorgeous partner. I fidgeted as his thick cock filled her, and he squirted his cum inside her unprotected cunt.
Clare made eye contact with me. She smiled and pulled her lover to kiss her. She knew how that made me feel.
My cock flinched in earnest. She passionately wrapped her arms around his spent body as she writhed underneath him. Partly for her, mostly for me. My fiancée knew what that did to my horniness.
And then she asked for me to go down on her. To sap the leaking cunt and clean it of his cum. To swallow the semen of another, directly from my lady, as Simon watched on. My erect cock, untouched and not required. I could not move quick enough, as my face dived between Clare's legs and my tongue lapped at the milky seed, given by another.
An hour later, the five of us shared a taxi to the large spacious venue, situated on the edge of a suburban town. A former manor house had been acquired by the sex club, which the Braithwaites were members of, as a bequest from an unmarried, horny pensioner in his sizeable will. The driver gave us knowing looks as he deposited the three men and two women were at the gate. He knew; the girls made it obvious to him.
There were changing facilities at the venue. Victoria never needed them. She was proud of her sexuality and loved to flaunt her availability to everyone. She had used the small taxi firm before, and she recognised the driver. Perhaps she had treated him on a previous day; it was quite probable.
Martin paid the driver and left a generous tip with the smirking gentleman. Victoria wrapped her arm around Clare's waist and beckoned the hunky firefighter to her side. She never cast a second glance at Martin or myself, as they walked up the small drive, hidden by a screen of bushes.
Clare was wearing a sheer black chemise that covered nothing and displayed everything. She sat in the front seat of the taxi and her wandering hands rested on the driver's lap. Knee high black boots completed her outfit, that thudded as she strode up the narrow path. She looked like an extra from Wolf of Wall Street.
Victoria wore just a flimsy, dark translucent jacket around her body that she had tied in the middle of her breasts. It billowed in the summer breeze as she walked. Her long legs were accentuated by sheer stockings and high-heels.
The women resembled porn stars. Martin and I were shirtless with just red tartan kilts and red collars donning our bodies. The neckwear was the reason we would be surrounded by sex and get offered nothing. The scarlet choker indicated that we were "bottoms." Victoria had snapped her husband's manhood inside a metal cage, with the key attached to her anklet, but it was needless. The red leather neckwear was more powerful than any chastity device.
The fine weather and warm evening had caused the party to spread out across the secluded grounds. The cool breeze carried aromatic scents of flowers and the chirping from the birds, and was overlaid with the passionate sounds of fucking from the courtyard.
