Chapter 115: January Blues
The 17th arrived cloaked in a brittle, frost-laced morning that gave way to a flat, iron-grey afternoon. Time had taken on a strange, gelatinous quality for Rupert since the calendar went up. The black star on January’s page was no longer an abstract symbol; it was a chasm in the day, and he was falling towards it.
He stood in the warmth of their bedroom, naked except for the cold, polished steel of the chastity device. The fire crackled in the grate, casting leaping shapes over the cream-colored linens and the ornate mirror that reflected his rigid posture. He felt both hyper-real and utterly disembodied.
The door clicked open and Margot swept in, a whirl of purposeful energy. She carried an armful of garments that whispered of silk and lace. Her eyes appraised him, not with lust, but with the keen assessment of a curator preparing a masterpiece.
“Hands,” she said, her voice breezy.
He held them out, palms up. She draped the first item across them. A scrap of black lace, so fine it felt like catching a spiderweb. A thong, but one with a narrow, deliberate strap that she had once, laughing, called a “fuck me harness.”
“You can help,” she said, turning her back to him and letting her robe slide down her shoulders. “Start with the stockings.”
His fingers fumbled with the sheer, charcoal-gray silk. He knelt, the rug rough against his knees, and carefully rolled the first stocking up her calf, over her knee, to the generous curve of her thigh. His touch was clinical, worshipful. She braced a hand on his shoulder for balance, the heat of her skin seeping into him. The scent of her jasmine lotion filled his lungs. He fastened the delicate suspender clip with a soft click. Then the other. The symmetry of it, the intimate routine, was somehow more devastating than any command.
“Now these,” she instructed, handing him the suspender belt. He stood, circling her to clasp it at the front, his arms around her waist. She leaned back into him for a moment, her head tilting against his chest. “He’s going to love these straps,” she murmured, almost to herself. “So much to grab onto.”
She stepped away, leaving him cold, and shimmied into the thong, adjusting the central strap with a precise tug. Then came the dress, a slip of emerald green velvet. She guided his hands to the zipper at the back, which ended just above the swell of her buttocks, leaving a dramatic expanse of skin naked to the firelight. The front was a deep, daring scoop that plunged between her breasts.
“Zip me, Blue.”
He did, the sound harsh in the quiet room. She turned to the mirror, not looking at her reflection, but at his in the glass behind her. Her hands smoothed down the velvet over her hips. A slow, satisfied smile spread on her lips.
“Look at that,” she breathed. “How lucky is he? A present, all wrapped up in green. I wonder what his hands will feel like on this velvet. Probably rough. I hope they’re rough.”
Rupert’s throat was desert-dry. He managed a sound that wasn’t a word.
Margot moved to the vanity, selecting a tube of crimson lipstick. She applied it with meticulous care, then pressed her lips together. She turned and walked to him, stopping inches away. She looked into his eyes, her gaze sparkling with sheer, unadulterated mischief. Then she leaned in and kissed him, a deep, messy, open-mouthed kiss that smeared the bold red lipstick across his mouth and chin. She tasted of mint and anticipation.
“A keepsake,” she whispered, pulling back to admire her handiwork on his face.
A car’s engine purred to a stop outside, the crunch of tires on gravel impossibly loud.
Her phone pinged. She glanced at the screen, and her smile turned feline. “That’s my ride. Be a good boy, now.” She picked up a small, sealed envelope from the dresser and tucked it into his hand. “Chores. Naked, of course. Cage on. I’ll be in touch.”
She swept past him, a vision of emerald and fire-kissed skin, and was gone down the stairs. He heard the front door open, a gust of cold air whispering up, then close with a soft, definitive thud.
He stood frozen. Then he stumbled to the window, peering through the gap in the curtains. A black sedan idled at the curb. The driver’s door opened, and a tall figure, obscured by a long coat and the deepening dusk, stepped out. He moved around to open the passenger door for Margot. He never looked up at the house. His face was a shadow beneath a pulled-forward cap. Margot slid in, laughing at something he said, the sound muffled by the glass. The man closed her door, returned to his seat, and the car slid away into the gathering night.
Rupert looked down at the lipstick smear on his mouth in the mirror. He looked at the envelope in his hand. The fire popped.
A paralysis broke. He ripped the envelope open. Her flowing script listed tasks: Polish all silverware in the dining cabinet. Clean the oven. Re-organize the wine cellar by region and vintage. Vacuum entire upstairs. It was mundane. Brutally so.
His phone, left on the bedside table, buzzed. He lunged for it.
A picture. Margot’s perspective, looking down. A man’s hand, large and strong, rested possessively on her thigh, his fingers splayed over the silk of her stocking, just below the stark black line of her suspender strap. A simple silver band gleamed on his ring finger. The caption: Warm hands.
Rupert let out a shaky breath. The game was no longer on the calendar. It was here, in his chest, a tight, aching fist. He looked at the list, then at his reflection—pale, marked, caged. He walked slowly toward the kitchen to find the silver polish, each step a conscious surrender to the exquisite, terrible architecture of her design. The house was profoundly silent, waiting for the next buzz of the phone, the next turn of the screw.