Chapter 132: The Anklet Revelation
The silence that followed Julia’s question was dense, electric. Then, Crimson Hood moved.
He didn’t speak. He simply guided Amanda backwards, his hands firm on her hips, until her calves hit the edge of the large, padded bondage bed. With a gentle pressure, she sat, then lay back, her head coming to rest on the black leather. Her chest rose and fell in a quick, expectant rhythm.
Red jerked against his restraints. “Wait—”
“Wait for what?” Julia was beside his chair again, her voice a honeyed murmur in his ear. Her fingers brushed his temple, a grotesque parody of comfort. “The ledger is open, Red. The entries need posting.”
Crimson climbed onto the bed, kneeling between Amanda’s spread legs. He didn’t rush. He took himself in hand, guiding his arousal against her, a slow, teasing pressure that made her back arch slightly off the bed. Then, with a smooth, deliberate motion, he entered her.
Amanda’s mouth formed a silent ‘O’. Her hands, which had been resting at her sides, flew up to grip the leather edges of the bed.
A ragged sob tore from Red’s throat. He stared, transfixed by the rhythmic motion, the intimate connection happening in stark, unforgiving detail under the lights.
“That’s one,” Julia whispered, her lips nearly touching Red’s ear. “An unlogged transaction from… let’s see, last April, I believe. A business trip she said was terribly dull. It wasn’t.”
The horror on Red’s face was the main event for her. She drank it in, her eyes sparkling.
Crimson’s pace increased, his hips driving with a focused intensity. The only sounds were the soft slaps of skin, the creak of the bed frame, and Amanda’s escalating, breathy gasps. She was turning her head from side to side, her blind gaze seeing nothing, feeling everything.
Rupert, from behind his blue leather mask, watched. His own body responded, a traitorous heat coiling in his gut. He saw the raw mechanics of it, the sheer physicality. This wasn’t the muted, familiar coupling of his marriage. This was something feral, and displayed. He was shocked to find his own breathing syncing with the bull’s thrusts.
Crimson finished with a guttural groan, collapsing forward briefly before pushing himself up and off her. He moved aside, and Navy was there immediately, taking his place without ceremony, sliding into the wet, willing warmth Crimson had left.
“And that’s two,” Julia narrated. “A forgotten lunch hour. You thought she was at the gym.”
The procession began in earnest. It was a brutal, efficient rotation. After Navy came Charcoal, who pulled Amanda onto her hands and knees, taking her from behind with a grunting vigor that rocked her whole body. Then Bronze, who laid her back again, hooking her legs over his shoulders, driving into her with deep, measured strokes.
The dungeon became a symphony of exertion. The air grew thick with the smell of sex, of heated leather, of salty sweat. Sounds layered over each other: the thump of a body against the padded horse, the jingle of chains from the St. Andrew’s Cross as Green Hood held Amanda against it, the wet, slick friction of coupling, the low male curses and Amanda’s continuous, muffled cries.
Rupert’s turn came. He was guided to the edge of a large ottoman. Amanda was placed on his lap, her back to his chest. Her skin was slick, her hair damp at the temples. He could feel the frantic hammering of her heart through her back. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand splaying across her stomach, right over the ‘CUM’ tattoo. It felt slick. He didn’t let himself think about why.
He entered her, and she let out a shattered moan, her head falling back against his shoulder. The heat was immense, consuming. Behind the hood, his eyes squeezed shut. This was Margot. His Margot. And he was… he was Blue. The anonymity liberated something in him, something cramped and dormant. His movements, initially hesitant, grew purposeful, powerful. He wasn’t Rupert the accountant. He was a bull, claiming his turn. The duality was intoxicating.
“Look at Blue go,” Julia cooed to Red, who was now weeping openly, his resistance gone, replaced by a hollowed-out stare. “So enthusiastic for another man’s wife. But then, she’s everyone’s wife tonight, isn’t she?”
The event stretched, a marathon of flesh. They used every piece of furniture. The sybian was employed, bringing Amanda to a screaming, shaking climax before the next bull mounted her. A vibrator was pressed to her as another took her from behind. The acts blurred into a carousel of grasping hands, thrusting hips, and choked exhalations.
Rupert went again later, on the floor, with Amanda riding him, her body gleaming under the lights, her movements frantic and greedy. He met her pace, his hands gripping her hips, leaving faint marks. He didn’t think of Red. He thought only of the sensation, the forbidden theater of it all.
Through it all, Julia was a serpentine presence, her commentary a relentless drip-feed of humiliation. “That load was from the plumber, Red. The one who fixed the boiler in October… This one, from her old university friend she ‘just had coffee with’… Oh, she’s taking that one well, must remind her of the tennis instructor…”
Finally, inevitably, the energy began to wane. The thrusts grew slower, more labored. The grunts were tinged with exhaustion. One by one, the men finished, spending themselves inside her with final, shuddering movements before stepping back, spent.
The last was Jet Black. When he pulled away, a slow trickle escaped Amanda and traced a path down her inner thigh.
Silence descended, broken only by the ragged chorus of breath.
Amanda lay on her back on the bondage bed, a wreck of glorious, used beauty. Her skin was flushed, mapped with faint red marks from hands and equipment. The temporary tattoo was now all but invisible, glazed over. Her chest heaved. She was utterly, completely still.
The eight hooded men, Rupert among them, formed a loose line beside the bed. They were slick with sweat, breathing heavily, anonymous sentinels.
Julia walked to the foot of the bed, looking down at Amanda with an appraising, almost maternal pride. Then she turned to Red.
Red looked broken. His face was streaked with tears, his eyes vacant and red+rimmed. He simply stared at his wife’s violated, serene form.
“Ledger balanced,” Julia said, her voice crisp and clean in the thick air. She walked over to him and began, with deliberate slowness, to unbuckle his restraints. The leather straps fell away. He didn’t move. “Every missing entry, accounted for. A full audit.”
She pulled him to his feet. His legs almost buckled. She guided him, like a sleepwalker, to stand at the foot of the bed, right where she had stood, looking down at Amanda.
“Take a good look, Red,” Julia said, no longer whispering. Her command filled the room. “This is the truth. This is her. Your birthday gift.”
Amanda turned her head slowly, blindly, towards the sound of his ragged breathing. A small, utterly peaceful smile touched her swollen lips.