The Summerhouse Ch. 00: Prequel

I was drunk.

Six pints of beer, two pints of cider, at least four whisky chasers, with only a cheeseburger and a few packets of Cheese & Onion crisps to soak up the booze, was enough alcohol to leave me smashed. Intoxicated, excited and charged. A few of our entourage had bailed when we hit the spirits. The rest of Paul's friends had scattered themselves around his student flat in a highly inebriated state. Lightweights! They were between nineteen and twenty-one years of age, and a few drinks at the popular University venue should have been in the lightly sozzled territory, not knocked out rhino. Embarrassments, the lot of them.

I had more cause than most to get sloshed at the union nightclub. Lucy, my girlfriend of six months, had danced with other men. She gyrated her body against a classmate as she downed shots of vodka in a dress that even Miley Cyrus might have considered a bit too risque for public viewing.

The svelte blonde had worn that slutty number, my favourite, when we met. And again when we first fucked. The long slits gathered plenty of male attention, the short length of the garment permitted lots of indiscretion, and the large quantity of mesh panels showed everything whenever she danced or moved.

And that night she had shown a lot. Every guy in the club got an eyeful of her assets. They saw the tops of her thighs and her peachy derriere. They even glimpsed the smattering of pubic hair that nestled above her heaven. Many wanted, and a few got lucky. Because Lucy did not disappoint. I observed a procession of men grind their bodies against my girlfriend, and they openly fondled her tits, her ass and her cunt. A couple took Lucy to a quiet corner of the student nightclub for more than just a grope on the dancefloor. The popular venue had many such places for naughtiness; it was that kind of establishment. The nightclub was where I first met Lucy; it was where we had our first kiss, and our first shag.

Lucy Ann Rhodes was my type of girl. I had always been attracted to sexually liberated and promiscuous women. Paul labelled them "sluts" or "slags" and, as I watched a classmate rub his crotch into the writhing ass of my girlfriend, I mooted that his terms were more accurate descriptions of what I called freedom. For Lucy, anyhow.

It had been over between us for weeks. Neither of us had the courage to end the relationship, and both of us avoided the subject. We just met up, screwed and parted. In between dates, I knew she cheated on me; she brazenly left used condoms in her bedroom bin for me to find. Lucy fucked someone else every single day and then claimed she was faithful; she was aghast when I suggested otherwise.

She lied, and I knew it. And she knew I knew it, but it changed nothing. Her address book had more phone numbers than a telephone directory, and she used more condoms than a music festival. She fucked who she craved and did not care about any of the consequences. If I wanted to enjoy continual access to her pussy, then I was required to feign ignorance of her indiscretions. We had no future together, but witnessing her brazen nastiness on the dancefloor, seen from on high, was a brutal reminder of the reality of our relationship. She saw me watching her and smirked as I shifted uncomfortably. She loved that I witnessed it, and I downed a few more drinks to slake my sorrows. I tried to pull a couple of good-looking girls without success. The aroma of desperation stunk, and it lingered around me.

So, I stayed with Paul throughout the night. His entourage, celebrating his birthday, grew and thinned dramatically as the celebrations wore on. The alcohol never stopped, which is why at 3am in the morning, I slouched on his sofa, surrounded by three drunken and snoozing lightweights in his student flat, who could not handle their beer.

"Jon," Paul giggled and looked across the couch at me. "Watch this." He flicked on his television at the third attempt of jabbing the remote control, and selected a directory on his media server. The screen filled with a cute girl walking on an American sidestreet when a limousine pulled alongside. "I love this one."

The moment she stepped into the limo with five black guys, all wearing tight white T-shirts, it was obvious Paul had selected a porn film. Two minutes after she got into the car, she was in an apartment, and they had pawed at her clothes and stripped the teenage redhead.

Paul groaned and unzipped his trousers and freed his cock. He groaned more when the men removed their restrictive shirts and shorts, and the actors presented large specimens of big black meat to the lithe woman. "This your favourite?" I asked.

"God yeah," Paul murmured, and concentrated on the erotica displayed on his television. His hand wrapped around his erect cock, and he ground his hips into the cushion underneath him. "Look at the size of those cocks. And she's deep throating them all. That's one nasty slut. Like your ex. Does she do that?"

My cock, constrained by my underwear, sparkled at this comment and I absent-mindedly fished my dick from my trousers and boxers. Paul grinned when he saw the movement and grunted when the giant black meat rammed into the squealing actress. "Probably what Lucy is doing now," I mumbled. My girlfriend had left the club with two guys with that familiar twinkle in her eye.

That's when it happened: his hand gripped my cock. His fingers wrapped around my shaft and he looked at me with a grin. No words exchanged, but I realised what he wanted. As we watched the petite starlet on the television ride one dick with gleeful abandon, I wanked Paul. And he did the same to me.

Our eyes fixated on the screen, as the men buried their stout, thick cocks into the redhead; they spared no orifice for their pleasure, as they used her cunt, her ass and her throat. I focused on the hard, dark dicks primaevally slamming into the lissome harlot. I stared at the glistening shafts emerge from the taken holes, infatuated by the ebony tools plundering the white whore.

Paul's hand felt amazing. His prick sliding against my palm felt even better. I glanced at his warm member pushing through my grip and focused on his foreskin, contracting and expanding over his glans.

The Jezebel with her spread legs and gleaming thighs was less captivating than the alpha men tag-teaming the sexy strumpet at the gang-bang. I concentrated on their dark spears - the ridges and veins that lined their meaty cocks - with envy. They looked so powerful and commanding, especially compared to the average-sized pasty pricks of Paul and I.

My friend grunted and groaned as my hand rubbed the pre-cum over his shaft. His gaze focussed on the muscular black men ravaging the willowy nymph. His body shook and the first spray of cum landed on his navy shirt.

The feel of Paul's spasming dick, the sight and sounds of his orgasm sent me further over my cliff of arousal; I panted as the waves of my release built until I could hold them back no longer. The sticky, warm texture of his seed landing on my fingers, flowing from his erupting cock, was enough to send me into a seismic, tremendous climax that left my flesh tingling with a cool waterfall of ecstasy cascading through my body.

He smiled at me as I covered the front of my shirt in semen. "Good video, huh?"

"Yeah," I replied and reached for his tissues on the table. I had never orgasmed like that from a simple handjob before.

He looked across the room to check his girlfriend was still asleep and inebriated. "I pretend the girl is Becca," he whispered. "They look alike. I'd love her to have that many cocks at once." Paul was in the academic year above me, so for almost ten months, until he graduated, we regularly met in his flat to enjoy porn videos and masturbate together. His choice of erotica frequently involved black men and always included gangs screwing lone women.

My girlfriend became my ex, and the following September, I returned to University for the last year of my degree as a single and free man. Paul had moved back to Cornwall, and on my second week back, I met the woman who would become the love of my life. Only, she wasn't what you would call normal.

Or monogamous.

Or vanilla.

She sussed me out over a flavoured coffee, long before I had got close to working out what made her tick, and if I wanted to be with her, then I needed to embrace my girlfriend having the sort of freedom that caused Lucy and I to split up.

However, on the plus side, Clare was definitely "my type."