Chapter 112: Service Interrupted
The red light above Door Seven pulsed like a frantic heartbeat. Rupert stared at it, his body still locked in the paralysis of witnessing that first, deep, claiming thrust. The buzzer’s harsh, electronic bleat tore through the corridor’s muffled soundscape.
“Blue! Move!” Henry’s voice, strained and thin, snapped him out of it. Henry was already scuttling back from Door Two with an empty wine tray, his hood turning toward the blinking panel. “They won’t wait!”
Rupert stumbled to the service trolley. His mind was a white noise of static, his hands trembling. What did she want? What could she possibly need now? He stared at the array of bottles, tubes, and items. The buzzer blared again, more insistent.
“Just go in!” Paolo hissed from his station at Door Four. He hadn’t moved from his viewing slot, his voice thick with a mixture of agony and rapture. “Take the trolley!”
Rupert fumbled, grabbing the edge of the metal trolley and wheeling it shakily toward Door Seven. He paused, his hand on the knob. Through the mesh, he could see the blurred, rhythmic movement on the divan. He took a breath, pushed the door open just enough to slide the trolley in, and kept his hooded head down.
The sounds hit him first. The raw, wet slap of skin on skin, faster now. Margot’s voice, broken into panting sobs of pleasure. “There…god, right there…”
The air in the room was thick, musky with sex and her perfume. Rupert kept his eyes lowered, seeing only the floor and the edge of the divan. A large, discarded golden thong lay near his foot.
“Ah! Stop, stop a second,” Margot gasped.
The rhythmic slapping ceased. Rupert froze.
“Ice cubes,” Margot said, her voice breathless but clear. “From the bucket. Two. Now.”
Rupert’s head jerked up instinctively, then he forced it back down. He saw the silver ice bucket on a side table, condensation beading its sides. He moved to it, his fingers numb, and scooped out two cubes. They burned with cold against his skin. He turned, eyes still downcast, and held them out toward the sound of her breathing.
A hand—large, square, with a faded tattoo of an anchor on the wrist—reached out and took them from his palm. The bull’s hand. The contact lasted less than a second. The cold bit. The anonymity was absolute.
“Thank you, Blue,” Margot purred, a smile in her voice.
Then a sharp, shocked gasp from her. A low, approving growl from the bull. Rupert dared a glance.
The bull was kneeling up, Margot straddling his lap, her back to Rupert. The man held an ice cube between his fingers, tracing it slowly, deliberately, down the line of her spine. Margot shivered violently, her head falling back against the bull’s shoulder. He brought the cube around, circling one peaked, rosy nipple. She cried out, her back arching further. The bull then brought his icy fingers down, past her navel, and Margot’s hips jerked forward with a sharp, bitten-off moan.
Rupert stumbled back out into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind him. He leaned against the cool wall, the image seared into his mind: her abandon, the bull’s controlled artistry, the shimmering trail of water on her skin.
Chaos had broken loose in his absence. Buzzers chimed and lights flashed above Doors One, Three, and Five. Henry was frantically trying to open a new bottle of champagne, the cork refusing to budge. Another cuck, whose badge read ‘Slate’, was rushing past with a fresh stack of towels, his breathing ragged.
“More lube, Room Three! Waterproof sheet!” a commanding female voice—Elizabeth’s—filtered through Door Three’s mesh. “He’s a splendidly enthusiastic squirter!”
Rupert returned to his slot at Door Seven. The ice cube was gone. Margot was on her hands and knees now, her head hanging low, her curls swaying with each powerful drive of the bull behind her. His hands, those same anchored hands, gripped her hips hard enough to leave fleeting white marks on her skin. Each thrust elicited a punched-out “uh!” from her lungs. Her eyes were open, but they were glazed, staring at nothing. Or, Rupert realized with a jolt, staring directly at the two-way mirror. At him.
Her lips, swollen from kissing, moved. She mouthed a single word, synchronizing it with a particularly deep surge. Mine.
Was she talking to the bull? To him? The ambiguity was a twist of the knife.
A crash from down the hall. Henry had fumbled the champagne bottle. The cork had finally shot out, ricocheting off the ceiling, and frothy liquid was pouring over the trolley and his feet. A peal of laughter came from behind Door Two—Elizabeth’s laughter, bright and unconcerned.
“Oh, Henry, you darling fool! Fetch a mop! And another bottle!”
Rupert’s gaze was dragged back to the mirror. The bull had slowed, his movements becoming deliberate, grinding circles. He was whispering into Margot’s ear. She was nodding, her expression shifting from wild abandon to focused intensity. She pushed herself back up to her knees, turning her head to kiss him over her shoulder, a deep, slow kiss of conspiracy.
Then she shifted, guiding him to lie back on the divan. She climbed over him, reversing her position, lowering herself onto his face while taking his length into her mouth. The bull’s hands came up to grasp her thighs, holding her in place as his head moved with hungry intent.
Rupert could see Margot’s shoulders working, her spine curving with the rhythm of her own oral worship. A low, sustained moan vibrated through her, muffled by the flesh in her mouth. Her fingers tightened on the bull’s hips. Her head began to bob with desperate urgency.
The buzzer above Door Five screamed. Then Door One. The corridor became a ballet of blue-hooded servitude, men darting to and fro with towels, bottles, and latex, their own arousal and torment ignored in the face of demand. The air grew warmer, thicker with the scent of sweat and sex escaping from briefly opened doors.
Rupert didn’t move from his post. He was pinned, watching his wife unravel a man she didn’t know, her pleasure so vast it seemed to fill the room and seep through the glass. Her movements became erratic, frantic. The bull’s grip on her thighs turned vise-like.
She climaxed with a silent, shuddering scream, her body seizing, her head throwing back in a convulsion of pure, unadulterated release. A moment later, she pulled away with a wet gasp, scrambling, turning, kissing the bull with a ferocity that looked almost like anger. She pushed him back onto the cushions, straddled him, and guided him back inside her with a single, sinking motion that made her eyes roll back.
She rode him like that, facing the mirror, her gaze locked onto the unseen spot where Rupert stood. Her expression was fierce, triumphant, drenched in sweat and satisfaction. She was mouthing words again, riding the crescendo.
See… what… you… forgot.
The buzzer for Room Seven lit up once more, a persistent, glaring red. But this time, Rupert didn’t jump. He was too far gone. He simply watched, prisoner and witness, as the bull beneath her bucked and stiffened, his own climax silent but evident in the sudden, rigid tension of his body and the final, crushing grip of his hands on Margot’s swaying hips.
She collapsed forward onto his chest, spent. The room was quiet save for their ragged breathing.
The buzzer continued to blare, unanswered, a demand in the sudden quiet. From behind Door Four, Dolores’s voice cried out, “¡Finalmente! ¡Así! ¡Dámelo todo!” A chorus of other buzzers seemed to answer her, lights popping like fireworks down the dim, secret hall.