Chapter 116: Throws of Passion
The silver polish smelled of chemical almonds and left a grey smudge on Rupert’s wrist. He worked methodically, a naked, marked man in a silent house, the only sounds the whisper of cloth on alloy and the low hum of the refrigerator. The cage was a persistent, dull ache, a focal point of his entire existence. Every fiber of the worn hallway rug registered against his knees as he moved from the dining room to the kitchen, the framed family portraits on the walls seeming to observe his peculiar penance.
His phone, placed on the kitchen island, remained dark. The silence was a substance, thick and heavy.
He attacked the oven next, the acrid smell of cleaner cutting through the almond scent. Elbow deep in grease and baked-on grime, the absurdity was not lost on him. This was her design: the mundane juxtaposed with the profane, his kneeling submission literalized in scrubbing.
A buzz. A vibration that traveled up through the granite countertop and into his bones.
He wiped his hands on a towel, leaving grey streaks, and picked up the phone.
A new picture. It was closer, more intimate than the hand on her thigh. Margot’s lips, painted that same devastating crimson, were parted in a soft ‘O’. They were pressed against a column of tan, masculine skin, dotted with coarse dark hair. The corner of a silver chain was visible. The caption read: Tastes of salt and expensive Scotch.
Rupert’s breath hitched. He leaned against the island, the cold stone biting into his hips. The image was a punch to the solar plexus. He could smell the phantom peat-smoke of the whisky, imagined the heat of that stranger’s throat under her mouth. The cage strained, a futile protest. He closed his eyes for a moment, then went back to the oven, scrubbing with a fury that did nothing to cleanse the picture from his mind.
An hour later, the oven gleamed. The wine cellar was a cool, dim cave. He was reorganizing a Bordeaux when the next buzz came. Two, in quick succession.
The first: a low-angle shot, looking up at Margot from between her legs. The emerald velvet of her dress was rucked up around her hips. The black lace thong was shifted to the side, a wide, dark head poised at her entrance, which glistened under the camera flash. Her own hand, nails painted a deep plum, gripped the base. The caption: He says you keep it very tidy. Good Blue.
Rupert’s legs felt weak. He sat heavily on the cool stone floor, the bottles clinking softly in their racks.
The second picture followed a moment later. Same perspective, but pushed in. Flesh filled the frame. It was a picture of undeniable, brutal possession. Her slick flesh stretched around an impossible thickness. The details were merciless: the tension in her inner muscles, the way her curls were matted with sweat, the distinct vein running along the underside of the invading shaft. No caption was needed.
A raw noise escaped Rupert’s throat, echoing in the small cellar.
The final chore was vacuuming the upstairs. He moved like an automaton, the roar of the machine drowning out his thoughts. He finished in their bedroom, the scene of his earlier dressing-down. The fire had died to embers. He straightened the cream linens, his hands smoothing over the fabric where she had stood.
His phone buzzed one last time. Not a picture this time. A text.
Home in ten. Last chore. Kneel in the hallway by the front door. Hood on. Tongue ready.
His heart hammered against his ribs. The blue leather hood lay folded in the top drawer of his bedside table. He drew it out. It smelled of cedar and their shared history. He pulled it over his head, the world narrowing to the faint haze of the eyeholes and the tight embrace of the leather around his skull. He was Slave Blue. Anonymous. Waiting.
He walked downstairs, the plush runner soft under his bare feet. The hallway was dim, lit only by a small lamp on the console table. He lowered himself to his knees on the worn rug, facing the heavy oak door. He placed his hands on his thighs, palms up. The cage felt like a brand. He waited.
Headlights washed across the frosted glass of the door, then cut out. A car door thunked. Key in the lock. The mechanism turned with a heavy, final sound.
The door swung open, bringing a gust of cold night air and the scent of her jasmine perfume, now undercut with something else—something musky, electric, and alien. Margot stepped inside, a silhouette against the streetlight. She closed the door quietly, shutting out the world.
She turned to him. Her hair was voluptuously messy, defying gravity. Her lipstick was gone, her lips look slightly swollen. The emerald dress was still a stunning confection, but it carried the crinkle of prolonged wear. Her eyes, in the low light, were dark pools of spent energy and simmering amusement.
“Hello, Blue,” she said, her voice a low, smoky thing.
She didn’t touch him. She stepped closer, until the tips of her heels were almost touching his knees. She reached under the velvet skirt, her movements economical. He heard the soft whisper of elastic, the snap of a suspender clip. She hooked her thumbs into the sides of the black lace thong and drew it down her legs, stepping out of it one foot at a time.
She held the damp scrap of fabric for a moment, then let it drop onto his open palm. The silk was warm, saturated with a complex, potent fragrance that was entirely, uniquely her, yet now irrevocably altered.
“Now,” she murmured, her hands going back to her hips, pushing the velvet up again. “Your final chore. This is a mess. Be thorough. Not a drop left, understood?”
She shifted her weight, parting her feet slightly. In the dim lamplight, he saw the sleek, glistening evidence of her evening painted on her inner thighs. The sight was obscene, beautiful, and a command all at once.
Rupert leaned forward, the leather of his hood creaking softly. He closed his eyes, and pressed his mouth to her.