Chapter 114: New Year's Resolution
The smell of burnt toast and strong coffee replaced the warehouse’s stale champagne. Sunlight, weak and winter-pale, streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating dancing dust motes over the worn wooden table. It was aggressively normal. Rupert sat in his usual chair, cradling a mug, trying to anchor himself in the familiar chipped rim and the view of their frost-touched garden. The blue leather hood was a crumpled weight in his dressing gown pocket.
Margot hummed as she moved around the kitchen, a symphony of soft clicks from the AGA and the rustle of her silk robe. Her curls were piled into a messy bun, tendrils escaping at her neck. She looked refreshed. Luminous. The memory of her exhausted, post-coital radiance from just hours ago had been banked into this serene, domestic energy. It was more disorienting than if she’d been sullen or ashamed.
She slid a plate of slightly charred toast in front of him and leaned her hips against the counter, sipping her own coffee. Her eyes, that mischievous glint undimmed by sleep, studied him over the rim.
“You were very obedient last night, Blue,” she said, the name a casual spark to his nerves. “A good cleaner. A good… towel-holder.”
Rupert flinched. The memory of the damp, stained cloth in his hand was visceral.
“It was… educational,” he managed, the word tasting like ash.
Margot’s laugh was a warm, rich sound. “Oh, I’ll bet. For me too.” She pushed off the counter and pulled out the chair opposite him, sitting with a contented sigh. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her robe gaping slightly. He couldn’t help but see the faint, darker marks on her skin, just above the silk. Love bites. His stomach clenched.
“That bull you picked for me,” she began, her tone conversational, as if discussing a wine selection. “The one with the anchor. Mmm. He had the most fascinating technique. Very… deliberate. Not a frantic, boyish pound. A slow, deep, insistent conquest. Like he was mapping me from the inside.” She took a slow sip, watching his face. “He spent an age just on the aftermath of the ice. Warming me up with his mouth, his hands. He said I tasted like champagne and defiance.”
Rupert’s knuckles were white around his mug. He said nothing.
“When he finally entered me,” she continued, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur, “it was like he was claiming territory. That first, deep push… I saw stars, Rupert. Actual, literal little sparks behind my eyelids. And the sound he made. A sort of guttural, satisfied groan right in my ear. ‘Mine,’ he said. And for those hours, I really was.”
The kitchen clock ticked loudly in the silence that followed. Rupert felt stripped bare, more exposed than he had been in the hood.
Margot reached under her chair and produced a large, flat parcel wrapped in brown paper. “Which brings us,” she said, her smile turning sharp, “to the future.”
She slid it across the table to him. “Open it.”
With numb fingers, he untied the string and peeled back the paper. It was a calendar. Not the cheerful, WI-approved one with the smiling faces of Betty and Joyce and Maureen that currently hung by the fridge. This was different. Sleek, professionally printed.
The image for January was a photograph, artfully lit and shadowed. A muscular male torso, head obscured by a classic black leather bull mask, arms crossed over a chest dusted with dark hair. The backdrop was minimalist, industrial. No face. Just anonymous, potent masculinity. In the bottom corner, in elegant script, it read: January. And on the 17th, a perfectly printed black star.
Rupert stared. He flipped a page. February: another bull, this one leaner, with intricate tribal tattoos snaking down his arms. Another black star on the 14th. March, April, May… each month a different, anonymous man. A different body, a different suggested personality, all concealed behind masks.
June had a black star on the 4th. And then July… July had a black star on every single day from the 1st to the 7th. A solid week.
“Surprise,” Margot whispered, her eyes blazing with excitement. “Last year, the calendar was for you. A little tease, a little countdown to your secret adventures. This year… it’s mine. Our little reversal.”
Rupert finally found his voice, hoarse and thin. “A star for… for an appointment?”
“A date,” she corrected gently. “An encounter. A bull. She traced the week in July with a crimson-tipped finger. “That’s a special thing. A full week. Julia’s arranging it. A sort of… immersive experience. A bull for every day, or perhaps the same one, I haven’t decided. A whole week where my needs are the absolute priority.”
Rupert felt the room tilt. “A week?”
“Don’t look so shocked, darling. You’ll have plenty to occupy yourself. You’ll have your own calendar of sorts. Release schedules. Chores. Fitness goals.” She said the last part with a new, assessing look. “Which is the other thing.”
She got up, walked around the table, and stood behind him. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, kneading the tense muscles. Her scent, jasmine and sleep and him, enveloped him.
“You’re not unattractive, Rupert,” she said, her voice practical. “But you’ve gotten soft. Comfortable. All that accountancy hunching. I want you harder. Leaner. More… present. So, you’re on a program. Early morning runs. Weights in the garage three times a week. Julia’s given me the name of a discreet nutritionist.”
Her hands slid down, over his chest, feeling the softness there. “Think of it as a project. A transformation. Who knows?” Her lips brushed his ear, her breath hot. “If you work very, very hard, and show the right… attitude… maybe in a year or two, you could trade in the blue hood for a gold one. Wouldn’t that be a twist? My husband, becoming a bull for some other neglected wife? The ultimate cuckold revenge story.”
She laughed lightly at his sharply indrawn breath. It wasn’t a cruel laugh, but one of pure, unadulterated delight at the chaos she was orchestrating.
She returned to her seat, grinning at his shell-shocked expression. “It’s going to be fun, darling! Really it is. For both of us. You’ll get your humiliations, your little servile tasks—I’ve got a list, don’t you worry. And I’ll get my adventures. My calendar.” She gazed at the March bull with a fond, possessive look. “It keeps the mystery alive, you see? You’ll never know. The barista who makes your latte, the teller at the bank, the man who services the car… any of them could be a star on my calendar. You’ll look at every man in the village and wonder, ‘Was it him? Did he make her see stars?’”
She stood, taking the calendar from his limp hands. She walked to the wall, tore down the smiling WI calendar, and pinned the new one in its place. The masked bull for January stared out, inscrutable and potent, right into the heart of their sunny kitchen.
“There,” she said, dusting her hands. “Now, eat your toast. You’ll need the energy. Your first run is this afternoon. And I have a luncheon with Julia to plan February’s star.” She winked, a quick, bright flash of conspiracy. “Cheer up, Blue. The game is on. And you’re still my favourite player.”
She drifted out of the kitchen, humming again. Rupert sat, staring at the calendar, at the relentless march of black stars. The ghost of an anchor tattoo seemed to float before his eyes. The scent of her, and of a stranger, felt baked into the house. The jeopardy was no longer a single night in a warehouse. It was here, pinned to their wall, scheduled into their future, a quiet, ticking clock counting down to the next time he would have to hand his wife over, polish a glass, or hold a towel.