Chapter 110: Cuckold's Countdown
The world had narrowed to the cold press of wood against his thighs, the unforgiving iron at his ankles, and the damp, close darkness of the hood. Rupert’s breathing was a loud, ragged rhythm in his own ears. Around him, he could hear the others: the shift of bodies on the bench, a stifled cough, the faint clink of a chain. The main space of the warehouse now seemed very far away, a distant painting of light and movement seen through the keyhole of his eyeholes.
The laughter was brighter now, unburdened. He could hear Elizabeth’s distinctive peal, the rhythmic click of Dolores’s heels as she moved, and once, a low, thrilling gasp that made his stomach clench. Where was Margot?
Time stretched and warped.
A familiar, crisp footfall approached the line of chained men. Julia’s silhouette filled his limited vision. She stood before them, hands clasped behind her back, a headmistress surveying a line of errant pupils.
“Comfortable, gentlemen?” Her voice was not unkind, but it held no warmth. It was a statement of fact. “Your wives are having a delightful time. The selection this year is particularly… varied.”
She paced slowly along the line. Rupert watched her black heels click against the flagstones.
“I curated the bulls myself,” she continued, conversational, as if discussing canapé selection. “A spectrum. Age, physique, endowment. That is the point, isn’t it? The exquisite uncertainty. Your Margot, Rupert, might be on her knees for a silver-haired gentleman with a modest, elegant offering. Or she might be bent over a velvet ottoman, struggling to accommodate a man who is, frankly, proportioned like a stallion.” She stopped directly in front of him. He could smell her perfume, something icy and floral. “The not knowing is the art. That elegant mind-fuck.”
The term, spoken so plainly in Julia’s clipped accent, sent a jolt through him. It was true. The hoods, the secrecy, the calendar—all of it designed to keep him perpetually off-balance, to make every handshake at the grocery store, every glance across the village green, a question mark.
“Now,” Julia said, clapping her hands once. “Midnight approaches. We have a little game before the countdown. A touch of agency for you all. A sop to your egos.”
From a small leather pouch at her waist, she produced a velvet bag. “I will draw a number. One through ten, corresponding to your position on this bench. That cuck will then roll a die.” She held up a large, wooden die. It was carved with letters, not pips. “C. Or H. If you roll ‘C’, you, the cuck, may choose which of the available bulls your wife entertains next. If you roll ‘H’, your wife chooses. Simple.”
A nervous energy rippled down the line. This was a new layer. Not just passive watching, but a grotesque lottery with real consequences.
Julia dipped a hand into the bag. “Number… three.”
The man three spaces to Rupert’s left—Henry, he thought, by the soft, nervous sigh—jumped. A bull was fetched, a golden-hooded figure placed before him. The die was placed in Henry’s restrained hands. He fumbled, rolled. It clattered on the stone.
“H,” Julia declared. “Wife’s choice. Elizabeth!”
Across the room, Elizabeth disentangled herself from a conversation. “H? Splendid!” she called, her voice merry. She pointed a bejeweled finger at a bull near the back, a lean, younger man with a defined torso. “Him. The one who looks like he rows. Bring him here.” She didn’t wait, turning to lead her selection away. Henry’s hooded head drooped.
The game continued. Paolo, when his number was called, rolled a ‘C’. He immediately requested “the bull with the gut and the kind eyes,” making Dolores laugh uproariously before she kissed Paolo’s hooded forehead and led her chosen, older man away.
Each roll of the die was a tiny agony. Rupert’s heart thumped against his ribs. He didn’t know if he wanted to be chosen or not.
“Number seven,” Julia announced.
Rupert’s breath hitched. Seven. That was him.
A bull was guided over, standing anonymous and still two yards in front of him. The golden hood gleamed. This one was broader, with powerful legs. The pouch of his thong showed a heavy, pendulous shape. Rupert’s mouth went dry.
Julia placed the heavy die into his cupped, cuffed hands. The wood was smooth, cool.
“Roll, Blue,” she said, using his dungeon name. It stripped him of his last shred of context. He was just a number, a color, a function.
He couldn’t feel his fingers. He tilted his hands. The die tumbled, bounced once, twice, and came to rest.
The carved ‘C’ faced upward.
A strange, cold clarity washed over him. He had won. He had a choice.
“Cuck’s choice,” Julia said, a note of interest in her voice. “Well, Blue? The field is open. Except for those currently occupied, of course.” She gestured out to the room. A few bulls remained available, mingling by the champagne table. One was older, stooped slightly. Another was of average build. A third was tall and strikingly muscular.
And there was the one standing before him, the one Julia had presented.
His mind screamed to pick the older man, the safe one, the one who threatened nothing. A polite, modest transaction for Margot. A gentle fuck. The accountant in him wanted the least risky option.
But the heat in his blood, the chafing of the burgundy collar, the memory of Margot’s defiant, joyous kiss on a stranger’s chest—they spoke louder.
He looked at the bull before him. The sheer, potent physicality of him. This was what she wanted. Not safety. Not politeness. She wanted to be taken out of herself, to feel the terrifying, exhilarating edge of raw appetite.
His voice, when it came, was hoarse, muffled by leather. “Him,” he said, nodding toward the bull who already stood before him. “This one.”
Julia smiled, a thin, approving curve of her lips. “A decisive choice.” She leaned close to the bull, speaking low. The bull nodded, then turned his golden-hooded face toward Rupert. He gave a single, slow nod of acknowledgement.
“Margot!” Julia called, her voice cutting through the ambient noise.
Rupert’s heart stopped. Where was she? He hadn’t seen her return.
Then, from the shadows near the draped curtains, she emerged. Her emerald silk dress was slightly rumpled, a strap slipped off one shoulder. Her red curls were wilder. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes brilliantly alive. She was smiling a deep, satisfied, cat-like smile.
She walked over, her gaze sliding from Julia, to the powerful bull, and finally landing on Rupert, chained and hooded on the bench. Her eyebrow arched.
“Your husband rolled a ‘C’, dear,” Julia said. “He’s chosen your next partner. This gentleman.”
Margot’s eyes widened, just for a second. She looked at the bull, taking in his size, his presence. Then she looked back at Rupert. Her smile changed, softening at the edges, blooming into something private and fierce. She stepped close to the bench, leaning down until her lips were near the earhole of his hood. Her scent, sweat and perfume and something else entirely, enveloped him.
“My brave, beautiful Blue,” she whispered, the words a hot secret in the dark. “You chose the storm for me.”