Chapter 111: Servant's Quarters
The heat of Margot’s whisper lingered in the leather confines of his hood. Rupert’s skin tingled where her breath had touched it. She straightened up, her fingers brushing one last time against the rough stubble on his jaw, a fleeting connection before she turned to the golden-hooded bull.
Julia produced a small, ornate key. “On your feet, gentlemen,” she commanded, moving down the line of benches. The snick of locks disengaging echoed, followed by the heavy thud of iron ankle cuffs hitting the flagstones. Rupert felt the cool air on his skin as the restraints fell away. He stood, his legs stiff, the blood rushing back with a prickling surge.
“Midnight approaches,” Julia announced, her voice carrying across the now-quieter warehouse. The music had softened to a deep, pulsing ambient track. “A final moment with your wives before the turn of the year. A… preparatory kiss.”
A murmur, part anticipation, part trepidation, moved through the hooded men. The wives gathered their chosen bulls with glances and subtle touches, leading them to the centre of the space. Margot took the hand of her assigned bull, his large, calloused palm swallowing hers. She threw one last, smouldering look over her shoulder at Rupert—a look that held a promise and a challenge.
Julia positioned herself by a grand, antique grandfather clock, its pendulum swinging with a slow, solemn tick. “You have one minute,” she said. “Use your tongues wisely.”
The world dissolved into a surreal, urgent tableau. The hooded cucks moved to their wives, who stood beside the anonymous, towering figures of the bulls. Elizabeth guided Henry’s face to her neck, where he nuzzled and licked with practised devotion, while her chosen rower watched, his hands resting possessively on her silk-clad hips. Dolores pulled Paolo’s head between her breasts, her fingers twisting in his hair, whispering in rapid Spanish as her older bull stood patiently by, a faint smile visible under the edge of his golden hood.
Rupert approached Margot. She stood between him and the bull, a bridge of silken emerald. Her eyes were dark pools. He could feel the bull’s presence behind her, a wall of heat and dormant strength. He didn’t know where to touch her, what was permitted. She solved it for him, reaching for his hand and placing it firmly on the curve of her waist.
“Kiss me, Blue,” she murmured, tilting her face up.
He bent, his lips finding hers through the slit of his hood. The kiss was deep, desperate, fueled by the jealous energy of the last hour. She tasted of champagne and something uniquely hers. Her tongue met his, an ardent dance. Her free hand came up, clenching in the material of his tunic. He could feel the bull’s stillness, a silent witness to their intimacy.
The clock began to chime.
Boom. Two. Three.
Margot broke the kiss, breathing heavily. “Remember,” she whispered, her voice thick. “Watch. And listen.”
Seven. Eight. Nine.
She turned from him, leaning back into the bull, who enveloped her in his arms. Her head rested against his chest.
Eleven.
Julia’s voice rose above the final chime. “Happy New Year!”
Twelve.
The warehouse erupted. Streamers burst from the ceiling. The music swelled into a triumphant, brassy number. The bulls swept the wives into kisses that were not preparatory, but claiming, hungry, final.
Rupert stood frozen, watching Margot disappear into the embrace of the hooded stranger, seeing her hands come up to grasp his muscular shoulders, her body melding to his.
It lasted only seconds. Then, on some unseen signal, the bulls broke the kisses and began to guide their partners away, towards a heavy oak door at the far end of the room. Margot went without a backward glance, her hand clasped firmly in the bull’s, her gown shimmering under the low lights until she vanished through the doorway.
A profound silence descended on the cucks left behind.
“This way,” Julia commanded, clapping her hands sharply. She led them to a plain, grey service door beside the bar. She unlocked it, revealing a narrow, dimly lit corridor. The air was cooler here, smelled of concrete and disinfectant. They filed in, a sombre procession of blue leather hoods.
The corridor had doors along one side, each numbered, each with a small, darkened glass panel. On the opposite wall, at chest height, ran a long, continuous slot covered with a fine mesh grate.
“Your wives and their companions are now in the playrooms,” Julia said, gesturing to the numbered doors. “Behind you, these viewing ports look into each room. You will be able to observe. You will not be seen.” She walked to the end of the corridor where a small service trolley stood, laden with bottles of water, lubricants, towels, and an assortment of discreetly wrapped toys. “Should a buzzer sound from any room,” she pointed to a panel of small lights above each door, “you are to attend immediately. Fetch whatever is required. Refreshments, supplies, anything. You are service. You are audience. You are ghost.” Her smile was sharp. “Do not speak to them. Do not interfere. Is that understood?”
A chorus of muted affirmations.
Julia left, the service door clicking shut behind her.
For a moment, there was only the hum of distant, muted music and the sound of ten men breathing behind leather.
Then Henry, at Door Three, let out a soft, choked sound.
It broke the spell. They all turned, pressing their faces to the mesh-covered slots.
Rupert found Door Seven. He leaned close, his breath fogging the glass. The room beyond was softly lit by a single lamp. It contained a large, low divan piled with cushions. And there they were.
Margot stood by the divan, her back to him. The bull’s hands were on her shoulders, moving slowly, possessively, down her arms. He was unpinning her hair. Red curls tumbled down her back. The bull gathered them in one massive hand, lifted them, and buried his face in the nape of her neck. Margot arched back against him with a sigh Rupert could almost hear through the thick glass.
He saw her hands come up, reaching behind to clutch at the bull’s thighs. Saw the bull’s hands slide around her waist, splaying across her stomach, pulling her flush against him. The golden thong did little to conceal his state; the thick, heavy shape of him pressed against the small of Margot’s back.
Rupert’s own body responded with a helpless, aching throb. He was riveted, repelled, electrified.
The bull turned Margot to face him. He said something, his voice a low rumble lost behind the glass. Margot laughed, a flash of white teeth, her head thrown back. She nodded. Then, with deliberate slowness, she reached for the thin strap of her emerald gown and let it fall.
The silk pooled at her feet. She stood before the hooded stranger in nothing but her heels and a sheer, black lace bra. Her skin glowed in the lamplight. The bull’s hands came up to cradle her full breasts, his thumbs brushing over the lace. He bent his head, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that was all consuming.
Rupert’s fists clenched at his sides. He couldn’t look away.
From down the corridor, he heard a sharp, quick inhale. Door Four. Paolo. Then a low, guttural moan. Dolores’s voice, faint but recognisably ecstatic, filtered through the mesh. “Sí! Ahí! Just there!”
The buzzer above Door Two chimed, a bright, intrusive sound. The light blinked. Henry jolted away from his viewing slot, looked around in a panic, then scurried to the service trolley. He fumbled with a bottle of water and a glass.
Elizabeth’s voice, crisp and commanding, came through the door as Henry cracked it open just an inch. “Not water, Henry. The Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Two glasses. And be quick, darling, he’s parched.”
Henry exchanged the water for a bottle of red wine, his hands shaking.
Rupert turned back to his slot. The scene had changed. Margot was on the divan now, on her back. The bull was above her, kneeling between her legs, which were hooked over his shoulders. His head was buried between her thighs, his broad back working. Margot’s face was a mask of helpless pleasure, her eyes closed, her mouth open in a silent cry. One hand was fisted in the cushions, the other was tangled in the bull’s short-cropped hair, urging him on.
The intimacy of it was a physical blow. Rupert knew that expression. He knew the exact cadence of her breathless pants, even though he couldn’t hear them. He had mapped that territory himself, a lifetime ago. To see it now, bestowed upon a faceless stranger, was to have the very pillars of his history with her rattled to their core.
The bull shifted, lifting his head. He said something, his voice a question. Margot nodded frantically, her hips rising off the couch. She was saying “Yes, yes, please,” the shape of the words clear on her lips.
The bull reached for something on a small side table. A condom packet. He tore it open with his teeth.
Rupert’s heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. The moment he had chosen. The storm.
The bull sheathed himself. He placed a hand on Margot’s stomach, pinning her gently. He guided himself to her. Margot’s back arched, her head pressed back into the cushions. Her lips formed a single, stretched word.
Now.
The bull drove forward.
Rupert saw Margot’s body jolt with the impact. Saw her eyes fly open, wide, unseeing for a second before they squeezed shut again in overwhelming sensation. Saw her mouth form a perfect, silent ‘O’.
And down the corridor, the buzzer above Door Seven—his door—lit up with a sudden, blinding red light.