Chapter 128: Invitation Anticipation
The silence in the car on the drive home from Julia’s had been a living thing. It wasn’t hostile, but thick, viscous with unsaid words and the phantom scent of leather and sex. Rupert drove, his hands at ten and two on the wheel, his mind a fragmented reel of images: the two-way mirror, the silhouette, Margot’s taste, Julia’s final, barbed question.
Who knows where a slut for cock like this ends up?
Margot had dozed against the passenger window, the streetlights painting golden stripes across her peaceful face. She looked innocent. The contradiction was dizzying.
That was three days ago.
Now, it was Tuesday evening. The comfort of their bedroom, with its familiar floral duvet and the gentle hum of the central heating, felt like a stage set for a normal life they were no longer living. Rupert sat on the edge of the bed, a small, heavy package in his lap. It had arrived by special courier that afternoon, addressed to him. No return address.
Margot leaned against the doorframe of the en-suite, towel-drying her hair, watching him. The mischievous glint was back, brighter than ever. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
He tore the plain brown paper. Inside was a sleek black box. Lifting the lid, he found a translucent, flesh-toned silicone sleeve, intricately textured on the inside, and a small bottle of clear lubricant. Beneath it lay a single, innocuous USB drive.
“It’s a Tenga,” Margot said, as if identifying a novel kitchen gadget. “Very good for stamina training. Julia recommends it.”
Rupert picked up the sleeve. It was strangely weighty. “Training.”
“Mhm. For the party on Saturday. At Julia’s. A special one.” She came to sit beside him, the bed dipping. Her scent—soap and her own particular skin—overwrote the dungeon’s musk. “She wants you… prepared. Limber. You’re to use that, unlocked, every night until then. Can't have a hair trigger, so to speak.”
He stared at the USB drive. It looked cold, clinical. “And this?”
Margot’s smile turned feline. “That’s your inspiration. Your… motivational material. Some highlights from the dungeon cameras. Edited just for you.” She traced a finger along his thigh. “I thought you might appreciate a curated selection. The ‘Greatest Hits,’ so to speak.”
A cold knot formed in his stomach, threaded with a hot wire of anticipation. “You filmed it.”
“Julia films everything. Security, you know. And for review.” She said it lightly, but the implication was clear: for his review. “Watch it while you train. Get used to the sights. The sounds. It’ll help with any performance anxiety on the night.”
She leaned over and plucked the small silver key for his chastity device from her nightstand. The click of the lock disengaging was the loudest sound in the room. The relief was immediate, a dull ache replaced by a vulnerable sensitivity. “Five nights,” she whispered, her lips close to his ear. “Be a good boy. Build it up for me. For Saturday.”
She kissed his temple, then stood, padding toward the door. “I’ve got a Women’s Institute committee call. Brexit has utterly ruined the provenance of our jam competition fruit supply. It’s a whole thing.” At the doorway, she paused, glanced back at the USB drive in his hand. “Oh, and Rupert? Volume up. I want to hear it when I come back up.”
Then she was gone.
He sat alone in the quiet room. The Tenga sleeve sat on the duvet like an alien artifact. The USB drive seemed to pulse in his palm. The carved wooden box on the bedside table seemed to watch him, its lid slightly ajar, hinting at the calendar within, at the black stars, at the week in July.
He plugged the drive into his laptop.
A folder opened with a single video file, labelled simply: FOR BLUE.
He double-clicked.
The screen filled with the high-definition, colour-saturated view of Julia’s dungeon. The camera was from the same angle as the viewing room. It was empty, silent. Then a door opened.
Margot walked in, wearing the emerald green harness and heels from Christmas. Her hair was a brilliant flame against the dark velvet. She was led by a figure in a black hood—December? January? He couldn’t tell. The man’s hands were large, possessive on her waist.
Rupert’s breath hitched. This was clinical, observed, devoid of the muffled glass and darkness that had provided a buffer. The audio was crisp. He heard the rustle of leather, the soft clink of a carabiner.
He watched, transfixed, as the hooded man bent Margot over the padded leather horse. He heard her sharp intake of breath, then a low, melting sigh as he entered her. The sound was unmistakable, wet and deliberate. The man’s thrusts were methodical, powerful. Margot’s cries were not the playful sounds she made with him; they were raw, guttural, vowels of pure sensation.
Rupert’s hand had moved to his own flesh, unbidden. He was hard, throbbing. Shame burned his cheeks, but it was drowned by a sharper, more compelling current of arousal. This was a violation of every conventional boundary, and it was for him. She had done this, she had filmed it, for him to watch.
The scene changed. A different angle, a different bull—this one taller, more brutal in his pace. Margot was on her back now, ankles hooked over the man’s shoulders, her body a taut bow. The camera zoomed in, cruelly intimate, on the point where they joined, glistening, stretched. The bull grunted, a feral sound. “Such a greedy cunt,” a voice muttered—Julia’s, from somewhere off-camera. Margot sobbed in agreement.
Rupert fumbled for the bottle of lube, his hands unsteady. He slicked himself and slid into the Tenga sleeve. The sensation was intense, the textures mimicking a tight, rippling passage. He pumped slowly, his eyes glued to the screen.
Another cut. This was more recent. The bull from March—he recognised the build, the way he moved. This was the one who had watched. Here, he was claiming. He had Margot on her knees, his hands fisted in her red hair, using it as a rein. The slap of skin on skin was a rapid, punishing rhythm. Margot’s face was a blur of ecstasy, her mouth open in a silent scream.
“Who does this pussy belong to?” the hooded man growled, his voice distorted but clear.
“You!” Margot gasped, the word punched out of her. “Yours! It’s yours!”
Rupert’s pace with the sleeve increased, a frantic, matching rhythm. The jealousy was there, a acidic splash in his gut, but it was instantly synthesized into fuel. He was here, with her, now. He was the one being allowed this. He was being prepared.
The video cut to a montage, set of all things to a throbbing synth track. Close-ups: Margot’s mouth, wide around a cock; her fingers digging into a muscular, tattooed back; her anklet, gleaming against a dark leather cuff; her eyes, rolling back in her head. It was a propaganda reel for her own corruption. And it was working.
Rupert was sweating, teetering on that agonizing crest. He shot his load into the Tenga. On screen, the montage ended with a slow-motion shot of Margot, spent and glowing, smiling dazedly directly at the camera—at him—and giving a slow, sleepy wink.
The screen went black.
Rupert pulled the sleeve off with a shudder. He locked himself away again, the cold metal a shocking contrast. The physical denial was a cage, but his mind was now prowling a much wider, wilder territory.
Downstairs, he could hear the faint, mundane murmur of Margot’s meeting. “…and if the apricots are from Spain, the terroir is entirely wrong for a traditional English jam…”
He lay back on the bed, the laptop humming beside him. The party on Saturday was no longer an abstract date. It was a destination. A culmination of this week of arousal and psychic bombardment. What would it be? Another bull to watch? Something worse? Something better?
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Margot, though she was just downstairs.
How was the training film? Did you like my wink?
He typed back, fingers clumsy. It was very… instructional.
Her reply was instant. Good. Remember, stamina. Save it all up. Julia’s planning something very special for you. She says you’ve earned a more… participatory role.
A final message came through: a photo. It was a close-up of her hotwife anklet, nestled against the bare skin of her ankle. On the floor beside it, just in frame, were a pair of discarded, heavy-soled black boots that did not belong to him.
See you Saturday, Slave Blue, the caption read.