Chapter 136: Preparations
The days until April eighteenth passed with a strange, suspended quality. Rupert performed his audits, drank his tea, and slept beside his wife, all while feeling like a ghost in his own life. The vintage calendar on the wall was no longer just a provocative piece of art; it was a timeline, a countdown. The masked bull for April seemed to watch him with a younger, shyer anticipation.
On the morning of the prom, Margot was electric. She bustled around the house with a focused energy that left a humming wake. After breakfast, she cornered him in the bathroom, steamy from her shower. She was wrapped in a towel, her skin pink, her curls damp and wild.
“Right. I need to be perfect,” she announced, dropping the towel. She stood naked before the full-length mirror, critically appraising herself. “He’s eighteen. His references are… theoretical. Pixels and daydreams. I need to be a revelation. The real thing.”
Rupert leaned against the doorframe, the cold porcelain of the sink pressing into his back.
“You’re always perfect,” he said, and he meant it, even now.
“Perfect isn’t the point. Approachable is the point. Goddess-like, but touchable.” She turned to him, her eyes gleaming. “I want you to help.”
“Help?”
“Shave me.”
The two words hung in the damp air. It was an intimacy from another era, a trust exercise from their early days. A ritual now repurposed.
She produced a pink razor and a bowl of warm, lavender-scented foam from the cabinet. “Landing strip,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Classic. Not too intimidating for a first-timer, but definite. Professional.”
He took the tools, his fingers clumsy. She hoisted herself onto the edge of the wide marble vanity, sending a bottle of moisturizer clattering into the sink. She lay back, the curve of her belly soft, the red triangle of her pubic hair glistening with droplets of water. The tiny gold ring with its silent bell was just visible.
“Go on,” she said, closing her eyes. “Be my beautician.”
He applied the warm foam with his fingers, the touch clinical at first. Her skin was so familiar, the geography of her something he had charted over two decades. Now he was preparing it for a stranger. The razor felt alien in his hand.
“He’s probably never seen one up close before,” Margot mused, her voice conversational, as if discussing the weather. “I want it to be absolutely pristine. No stubble. Smooth as satin. He should be able to just… stare.”
Rupert swallowed, his first stroke tentative. The razor hissed through the foam, leaving a clean track of pale skin. A tremor ran through his hand.
“Steady,” she murmured. “I’m not going to bite. Though he might.” She giggled, a girlish sound that twisted something in Rupert’s chest.
He worked in silence, concentrating on the geometry of it, on not nicking her. The act was profoundly intimate and utterly bizarre. He was curating her for another man’s pleasure, following her precise specifications. The scent of lavender mixed with something darker, more metallic.
When he was done, rinsing the razor under the tap, she sat up and inspected his work in the mirror. She ran a hand over the neat strip of dark hair against the smooth skin. “Lovely. Thank you, darling. See? Teamwork.”
She slid off the vanity and brushed past him, leaving him to clean up. He watched the tiny flecks of red hair swirl down the drain.
An hour later, she called him to the bedroom. The air smelled of her perfume, something expensive and jasmine-heavy. She stood before the cheval mirror, clad in the black lace bra and thong he’d helped pick online.
“The final fitting,” she declared.
The lace was sheer, the cut punishing. It lifted and separated, presenting her breasts like an offering. The thong was a narrow band that vanished between the cheeks of her arse, framing the newly-shaved strip.
“Do you think,” she asked, turning slightly, catching his eye in the mirror, “that the sight of this could make a virgin come in his trousers? Just the sight?”
Rupert’s mouth was dry. “Yes.”
She smiled, satisfied. “Good. That’s the goal. Maximum impact.” She stepped into a dress she’d laid out on the bed. It was emerald green, backless, with a neckline that plunged alarmingly. It clung to every curve, whispering over the lace. She zipped it up herself, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
She looked like a film star. A fantasy. Nothing like the president of the Women’s Institute who organized the jam competition.
“Final touch,” she said, slipping her feet into high, strappy heels. She then opened her handbag—a small, beaded clutch—and took out a small, unassuming bottle. She held it up for him to see. “Lube. Water-based. Less irritation. For the first time, you have to be meticulous.” She dropped it back into the bag with a decisive click. “Preparation prevents poor performance.”
Rupert felt a sudden, desperate laugh bubble up in his throat. He choked it down. It was the language of one of her WI fundraising meetings, applied to this.
She turned to him, finally, her expression softening. She walked over and took his face in her hands. Her palms were warm. “You’re being so good about this,” she whispered. “I know it’s strange. But it’s just one night. You have Ingrid, remember? Think of the Nuru gel. Think of… fluidity.”
He couldn’t think. He could only smell her perfume, see the promise and the cruelty in her eyes.
“I want you to think of me tonight,” she said, her voice dropping to a husky register. “Think of me in that school hall, finding a scared, tall boy with bad shoes. Think of me taking his hand, leading him onto the dance floor while some pop song plays. Think of me whispering in his ear that his night is just beginning. Think of me unzipping that cheap hired tux, slowly. Think of me being so, so patient.” She kissed him, hard. “And know that I will be thinking of you, here, being Ingrid’s compliant canvas. We’re both giving gifts tonight, Rupert.”
She released him, checked her reflection one last time, and smoothed the dress over her hips. The bell on her ankle was utterly silent. She picked up her clutch.
“I’ll be back after breakfast,” she said. “Don’t wait up.”
And then she was gone, the click of her heels echoing down the hall and then fading to nothing.
Rupert stood in the silent bedroom. The fireplace was cold. The calendar’s April bull gazed out. He looked at the bed, at the indentation where her dress had lain. The image was seared into him: Margot leading a faceless boy onto a dance floor, her back bare and pale under the disco lights.
He had three hours until he had to present himself at Ingrid’s. He sat on the edge of the bed, in the quiet, and felt the terrifying, unwanted stir of arousal amidst the chaos. The mindfuck, as she called it, was complete. He was humiliated, jealous, and achingly, painfully hard. The ledger was open, and he was scribbling in the margins, unable to decipher his own debits and credits.