Andre

The week after Valentine's Day, the Summerhouse received an unexpected and unwelcome visitor once lunchtime. Mr Simpson was a short, balding man with a suit from the 1980s and an outlook on life from the 1880s. His fingers rapped on the front door of Martin's wooden den of depravity with a firm, officious knock.

Martin and I were both naked, and my host had little choice but to invite the clipboard-wielding gentleman into our abode. "Mr Duncan Simpson, Cheshire East Council environmental health inspector. We've had reports, and some evidence submitted of loud parties from your neighbour, and I need to discuss the allegations and agree a noise management plan."

"A fucking what?" Martin asked. He stood akimbo with his caged cock twitching in front of the startled man reading from his clipboard. The sight of a chastity cage was too much to see. "This is my house."

"Mr ..."

"Braithwaite," Martin replied.

"Our department has the property owner listed as Mr Kielty."

"That's my maiden name," Martin snapped. "I bought the house as Martin Kielty, and then I got married to Miss Braithwaite. So I am now Mr Braithwaite."

"Mr Braithwaite, please go put some clothes on and we can discuss this. We want to do this reasonably. You don't want me to have to file a report."

"A report?" Martin cackled. "Why would you need to do that?"

"If you just get dressed ..."

"I can't," Martin replied. "I am not allowed to wear clothes while at home. It's a condition of the marriage."

Mr Simpson looked at me. "And neither is he. His fiancée gets very cross if he even thinks about socks."

The council official sighed. Martin gestured towards one of the leather armchairs. "Take a seat, Duncan." He followed the gaze of our guest onto the small table containing Martin's Valentine's Day present from Victoria. "Tea? Coffee? Something stronger, maybe?"

Duncan shook his head and looked down at his papers, blushing profusely. "I'm fine."

"I'll have a coffee," Martin ordered of me. "And Jon, did you fill up on the condoms and the lube for Saturday? I know we are running short, and if we need to order some more, as they take a couple of days to come."

"I'll go order them," I said, catching Martin's grin. "Will a thousand be enough?"

"Make it two." He smiled at the uncomfortable guest and raised his eyebrows. "One can never have too many condoms and too much lube. Eh, Duncan?"

The council official blushed. "I'll take you word for it."

"Oh yes," Martin enthused. "If you want a damn good seeing to, then that condom needs to handle some rough fucking. And that's a torrent of lube and a well-made sturdy johnny."

"Mr Braithwaite, I think you are being deliberately vulgar. Now, when I came here, I was told that you are the owner of this house from the gardener and it is you that is listed on this complaint which alleges that you contravene Subsection 14A of the Noise Regulations 2012 and Paragraphs 12 to 16 of the Environmental Protection Act 2005."

"What about subsection 69?"

"This is serious, Mr Braithwaite."

"Oh, really? So what has the prudish cunt complained about now?"

"Did you, or did you not have a party on the last Friday of January at your house?"

"Um ... yeah, maybe."

"And the following Saturday afternoon, did you have a 'plethora of men to conduct sordid acts in the garden'?"

"I wouldn't call six a plethora," Martin replied. "Merely, a small gathering. And there were five of us servicing the men. The girls got a bit excited. We were all tired after the party the night before. There is only so much fucking your holes can take. So there was spanking, I remember that. Some of us love a thrashing. Do you enjoy a good smack, Mr Simpson?" Martin grinned. "Or do you like to dish it out? I reckon you might be an uptight git at work, but you're a naughty schoolboy in the dungeon."

"Mr Braithwaite, that's enough!"

"Does Teacher discipline you? Does she give you six of the best?" Martin joked.

"Mr Braithwaite! That's enough!" Duncan barked and wiped his brow with his suit sleeve. "Your neighbour has alleged that the noise coming from your property exceeded the legal limit, has photographs and videos shot from that weekend from his estate that support his assertion that there was a weekend of wild, sordid partying at this address. And you seem to admit it."

"Is that legal?" The millionaire asked as I passed Martin his coffee and slipped upstairs to the bedroom to order supplies from his favourite condom supplier. "Isn't videoing people fucking other people on private property against the law? Voyeurism, surely."

"It's not for me to comment. That is a civil matter. But according to his statement, there was loud jeering and screaming at midnight on Friday night followed by several motor vehicles." I could hear the chatter from the room below as Martin spoke to the council officer.

He came into the bedroom a little later holding an "Official Warning" and a signed "Environmental Noise Action Plan."

"It basically says that we promise to limit the noise from our property between eleven in the evening and seven in the morning, which we do, apart from special occasions. But I want to smack that nasty piece of shit."

"What does ..."

"... Victoria say? I haven't asked her. I will get back at that twat. You'll help me, right? He's not a saint himself."

"Sure," I muttered, and Martin threw the paper onto his bed.

"I'm going to find my wife, first. I need a thorough thrashing after dealing with that officious prick!"

My host returned three hours later and showed me the dozens of scarlet lacerations across his back, buttocks and thighs. His cock was encased in a spiked chastity cage and there was a vibrating butt plug rammed in his backside. Martin's voice was calmer, his demeanour less aggressive. His wife had soothed the masochist and released his tensions.

Like a day at the spa, the viciousness of his domme's anger had relaxed Martin. She had unleashed hell on his body and he had enjoyed it. He needed it.

For the first time in weeks, my fiancée wanted to include me in my cuckolding. When we embarked on our journey as a couple, most of the sessions were threesomes where I shared my partner, or were her "playing away." As our relationship evolved, and especially since we moved to Cheshire, I was rarely in the same room when she had other lovers.

Carlton was a successful businessman in his mid-twenties. He owned four franchises, bought with money his grandfather left him, and led a debauched lifestyle. Victoria had met him at the sex club where he was an "elite member," vouched for his virility, and he had invited Clare on a date.

And me.

My fiancée had laughed when he had ordered her to bring along "her cuck" and he had been clear in what we had to wear. She was told to attire herself in black lingerie, a short, sexy but elegant dress, and an anklet. Clare gave me a pale pink T-shirt, low-cut denim shorts and shocking pink Doc Marten shoes to put on. I looked ridiculous.

It was freezing in late February, and the icy wind had painted my hairless, exposed skin with goosebumps. I moaned to Clare about it, as we waited outside the pub - our rendezvous point - but she just shook her head. "I am forever wearing short dresses and skirts, and no-one cares that my bare legs are cold."

She wrapped her coat tightly around her skin, and stared into the night, across the well-lit Mancunian plaza.

Carlton was exactly what I expected. Short, curly black hair with a dash of designer stubble. At just over six feet, he was tall and commanding without being freakishly lanky. He wore an expensive suit, impeccably tailored, and oozed confidence.

He strode over to my fiancée, held out a single red rose a little gift. "Mon amour," he oozed seductively in an enchanting voice and kissed her right hand. "You look ravishing."

He never glanced at me or offered me a word. He barely noticed me as he took my partner's palm in his and guided her to the exclusive restaurant adjacent to the bar. "James, Carlton James, I booked earlier," he called out to the Maitre d' standing at the entrance of the plush eaterie. "Table for three."

"Ah, Mr James, sir. Welcome back. I trust you had a pleasant time last week," the well-dressed man replied, and led us to a table at the rear of the premises. He gave us menus with ridiculously high prices next to the meals.

Carlton sat opposite Clare. His hand rested in her palm, and his eyes met with hers. "Do you like champagne?" He asked. "Because they do a lovely Ruinart that I would love to share with someone so intoxicating."

The host returned to our table and bowed. "Mr James, sir. May we have a small word with you?"

"Of course, Michael, of course," the smooth businessman uttered, and rose from his chair. "Excuse me for just a moment, dear."

They spoke in low voices a few feet away, but loud enough so I could hear every word. I would be naïve if I didn't think that was deliberate. "Mr James, one of your companions appears to be violating the dress code for this evening."

"Michael, I apologise profusely. That lady is my employee of the month, and she has brought her baby brother. He is not used to these sorts of restaurants, and if you want him to leave, I will send him to McDonalds. I understand that this establishment is the very cream of Mancunian cuisine and requires a certain class of people. I just wanted to treat him to a little refinement. A little sophistication." The two men, wrapped in impeccable suits, peered down at me. "I suppose this may be a bridge too far."

Michael sniggered. "Mr James, sir. We are most appreciative of your understanding in this matter."

With that, Carlton dismissed me to the fast-food restaurant on the next street as my fiancée and her date tucked into a three course meal and a bottle of expensive fizzy white wine. It had always been designed like that; he passed me a paperback novel with an erotic cover from his inside front pocket. "Read that, and get yourself a Big Mac Meal, eh? We will be done in a couple of hours."

The whole disappointment and embarrassment was an aphrodisiac. Whispered comments as I traversed the restaurant, holding the filthy book, while dressed in an absurd outfit. The fast-food diner staff said nothing, but I got a couple of glances as I paid for my meal and sat in the corner of their outlet reading the obscene publication, and watched the evening trade of clientele who visited the establishment for unhealthy food.

I got a few second glances. An effeminate man commented on my choice of reading material, but I was not the most outrageously dressed visitor to the American burger joint. I was a little relieved that the Mancunian evening attracted an eclectic mix of personalities stuffed with eccentrics. Essentially, as outlandish and bizarre as my outfit was, I blended into the crazy Manchester nightlife.

I read the book before Clare and Carlton finished their meal; the plot was basic, but the erotic scenes of the bisexual submissive cuckold was excruciatingly hot. It was the sort of sex that my fiancée and I sought, and it was the type of dirty fiction that I would have bought.

Clare turned heads. My lover attracted the attention of the patrons of the fast-food eaterie, and men did eye her as her heels tapped on the tiled floor and she leant on the neighbouring table. "Jon, dear. I am ready to go back. Are you coming?"

I could not get out of the restaurant quick enough and had to ride in the front seat of the taxi back to Carlton's plush Mancunian flat.

His property had extensive views over the canal and boasted three bedrooms. Modern, slick and new, I knew Clare's pussy would drip from the suave opulence and confidence of her date. He made them both cocktails and passed me a can of economy lager. He ran his hand up my fiancee's bare leg and caused her hem to ride up as they relaxed on the leather sofa.

"Go sit over there," he ordered and sent me to a bar stool on his breakfast bar.

Clare's black skintight dress was on the floor in minutes and was swiftly joined by his trousers and shirt as they kissed on the sofa.

They entranced me; my cock pressed against my briefs under the skintight denim shorts as I watched him smoothly seducing my partner. His hands had free license to roam over her succulent, elegant body. He had some muscles on his hairless chest, but was no gym hound. Good definition without being obsessive.

I was a little envious of the way my fiancée melted in his presence. Of his elegance and confidence. Of his effortless seduction. Of everything.

Clare's dark bra was the next item he liberated and deftly flung across the room. He looked up at me and gave me a wicked smile. "Get naked, cuck."

The leather cover was cool on my bare backside as I watched the suave businessman seduce my fiancée. His hands caressed her exposed skin, his fingers twirled over her bare nipples and his lips brought whimpers as they danced over her body.

He created a sensual delight, a mood of eroticism and expectation that caused Clare to gasp and squeal. Carlton toyed with her; my slut was desperate for sex within minutes.

He smoothly unhooked my fiancée's briefs from her ankles and threw them to me, sat in the chair in the corner of the room. "Put them on. Because while I fuck your girl, you are going to cum in her panties."

Clare said nothing as he bullied me. Carlton spied me don the lacy underwear and with a wry smile turned his attention back to my partner.

His fingers floated over her mons, elicited expectant moans and squeals, and then plunged between her legs. She wanted it. She gasped and begged for him to skewer her pussy, as their lips meshed and their bodies tessellated.

Smooth. Tactile. An almost spiritual embrace of two lovers entwined in a heavenly embrace. Without pausing, his fingers became buried in her cunt, and his thumb nestled against her clit. I watched his powerful strokes spearing into my fiancee's unguarded pussy.

Her legs parted, her holes available. She would have refused nothing he wanted. Debauched crying and hedonistic moaning followed her waspish breathing and loud groans. So quick, so effortless, so satisfying. My cock leaked into Clare's briefs and he made eye contact with me before a passionate snog with my wife.

"Lean there," he told her, and positioned her knees on the seat of the sofa with her hands resting on the back. She looked at me. "And you, cuck. Look in that drawer!" It was empty, except for a small bullet vibrator. He smiled and pushed his unfettered cock at the entrance of my fiancée's hole. "Turn it on and put it on the briefs. If you cum before I do, you get to lick out your wife!"

Clare beamed at me. Perhaps it was him marrying her off, or the humiliation I should have felt. Or the satisfying stretching of her cunt as his meaty prick slid past her wetness. Or everything, but she squealed and smiled as he made forceful yet irregular strokes into her.

"Watch him, he's going to come so quickly as he sits in your knickers and watches a real man fuck his girl. These cucks love it."

Clare loved it. Her bull humiliating her partner was one of her many fantasies, and it ticked many of her slutty, filthy boxes. She stared at me and I saw animalistic passion in her scintillating green eyes.

The vibrations from the powerful sex toy sizzled against my prick, stretching the frilly underwear. I adored the sensations, but savoured the moment. Carlton's powerful thighs drilled my woman, causing her to squeal and grunt. His thrusts were careful and measured. His slow, rhythmic pumping was calm and steady; their flesh slapping and fierce grunting was arousing. He flexed his control.

My balls sizzled. I could feel the hot, scorching eruption welling from inside. My muscles tensed, my breathing quickened and my sensitive prick flushed with electric sexual energy. Several waves of orgasm swept through my skin and dampened the underwear wrapped around my crotch. Clare smiled at me, Carlton grinned.

I felt weak and small. Drained, almost, as the cum bubbled through the black lace.

But I felt alive as Clare gasped. Carlton gripped the tops of her thighs and jackhammered his prick into her sopping hole. He wanted to highlight the difference between us, as he pounded his thick meat into my lithe fiancée.

Rutting, passionate, fervent intercourse that left Clare groaning. Her body pushed against the back of the sofa as he forcefully exhibited his masculinity and power. She came on his prick, screaming in ecstasy as his relentless thrashing of her cunt drove her to a long, explosive climax.

Finally, he drove his cock into Clare's exposed hole and unloaded the contents of his balls. Never before had I been so eager to lick my fiancée's cunt after bareback sex. Never had I supped at her well-fucked pussy and savoured the delicate tastes of cum, interspersed with her honey, so wantonly or excitedly. It was too much for me to even try to resist, and Carlton watched on with a wry smile. His sexuality as much as mine. He needed to be the alpha male and the demonstration of his virility and my submissiveness made him hard. Clare loved every moment of my tongue wrapped around her creamy slit. Her partner debasing himself at her used cunt.

Eventually, he took me to the bathroom and watched as I stripped naked once more, emptied my bladder and then handcuffed me to the single bed in the spare bedroom. "We don't want to be disturbed," Clare told me from the doorway. "Sweet Dreams," she muttered, and grabbed Carlton's hand as they left the room.

I had to listen to their wild sex all night. The headboard banging against the wall, the groans and cries from Clare. The trips to the bathroom or the sounds of the porn video from his bedroom. My imagination was a greater torture than anything they could have devised. I wanted to watch. I wanted to slip under the sheets and gently kiss my fiancée's clit as her well-endowed partner speared her lips. I wanted to run oiled fingers over their naked bodies and suck on the unloading balls of the alpha male. I wanted to be party to their games.

Instead, they imprisoned me. Tortured by the noises of their lustful encounters and kept awake by every sound from the neighbouring bedroom. It was a restless night. For all of us.

Clare woke me the following day. Carlton had woken up early, banged my fiancée and then gone into work, and with me still tied up, she gently caressed my prick into an erection, before straddling it.

"Four times last night," she whispered. "Four loads he dumped in me. It felt so, so good. To have bareback sex with someone clean." I gulped as her cunt slipped over my stiff dick.

"The last time he went while I had three of my orgasms. You've never done that, have you? You should see his underwear, no lacy panties for him."

And so her taunting continued. She put her hands on my shoulders as she rotated her pelvis, pressing my naked body into the bed as she ground against my throbbing cock.

Every word took me closer, every sashay of her hips sent shivers from across my flesh. I was helpless, in every sense. I was her toy and her masochistic lover.

She knew her accounts of his virility and masculinity would humiliate and degrade me. She meant belittled my prowess. Her comparisons between us were withering and chastening. Yet, her pussy slammed against my prick. Soft, wet and warm. Her fingers wrapped around my nipples for a delightful torment while her womanhood massaged my cock.

I panted, sighed, squealed, writhed and moaned. The beautiful embrace of my partner, reconnecting with her fiance, as her femininity coaxed several jets of cum into her sodden cunt, before she straddled my face and let me suck the fruits of my balls from my fiancée.

We both had to do a "walk of shame" the following day. Clare wore a short, expensive evening dress without underwear and I looked ridiculous in the bright pink Doc Martens and tight denim shorts. We arrived at the summerhouse at mid-morning.