Chapter 143: Dreaming of May
The silence in the bedroom stretched for three days. It wasn’t empty; it was thick, a gelatinous tension that absorbed ordinary sounds—the clink of coffee cups, the rustle of the newspaper, the evening weather forecast murmuring from the television. Rupert moved through the house like a ghost haunting his own life, his eyes perpetually tracking Margot, trying to decipher her.
She was a cipher, humming as she arranged daffodils for the Women’s Institute meeting, her smile sharp as a blade.
On the fourth evening, after the vicar’s wife had departed exclaiming over the “lovely, clean energy” of the sitting room, Margot cornered him in the kitchen. She held her smartphone loosely in one hand.
“You’ve been quiet, darling,” she said, leaning against the Aga. The warmth flushed her skin. “Still contemplating Ingrid’s circular energies?”
Rupert put down the tea towel. “I’m trying to understand the rules.”
“There are no rules. Only appointments.” She tapped her screen, a sly smile playing on her lips. “Speaking of which. Would you like a debrief? On April’s date? I haven’t shared the details yet.”
He didn’t want to. Every cell in his body recoiled. But his cock, traitorous and confused, twitched against his zip. He gave a tight, barely perceptible nod.
“Good.” She beckoned him with a finger and led the way upstairs. In their bedroom, the vintage calendar hung in its place of honour. She pointed to April’s page. The bull was hooded, of course, a lean frame posed against a sterile-looking bedroom wall. A black star was inked over the 15th.
“Eighteen,” Margot said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Can you believe it? A virgin. Sweet boy. All knees and elbows and this… delicious, raw hunger.” She unlocked her phone, swiped a few times, and held it out to him. “Look.”
Rupert took the device. The photo was close-up, intimate, lit by the harsh flash of a phone. It was a shot of Margot’s spread thighs, taken from between them. Her curls were a fiery backdrop. Centered in the frame was the thick, purplish head of a young man’s cock, slick with her arousal, poised at her entrance. The small gold bell on her piercing was a blur, caught mid-jingle.
“He took that one,” Margot purred. “I made him. Told him to document his first time inside a woman. He was shaking so badly he almost dropped the phone.”
Rupert swiped. The next image was a selfie. Margot, her face flushed and triumphant, her lipstick smeared. Behind her, a blurry shape of a boy’s shoulder, his face turned away. Her hand was reaching back, gripping his hair. Her expression was one of pure, carnal ownership.
“I rode him,” she said, moving closer to Rupert, her breath on his ear. “Once he was in, he forgot his nerves. Just this pounding, frantic rhythm. Like a rabbit. I came twice before he even knew what was happening. When he finally came, he made this sound… a choked-off sob. He filled me up, Rupert. It was hot and so fucking much. I could feel it dripping out of me all the way home.”
She took the phone back, swiped to a video. She didn’t play it, just let him see the thumbnail: a motion blur of flesh, a pale thigh gripping a hip. “I have the whole thing. Six minutes of him losing his mind inside your wife. Maybe I’ll play it for you someday when you need… motivation.”
Rupert felt dizzy. The images were branded onto his retinas. The juxtaposition was excruciating: the sacred, controlled union with Ingrid versus this raw, graphic defilement. Both orchestrated by his wife.
Margot saw the conflict warring in him and smiled. She walked to the dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out a small, curved piece of clear plastic with a complex-looking lock. A chastity device. It looked medical and demeaning.
“After your lovely time with Ingrid, I think you need a reset,” she said, her tone turning businesslike. “All that sensual build-up, that tantric energy… it’s made you contemplative. I need you desperate. So, unfortunately, you’ll be in this until after July. No intercourse for you. Plenty for me. It’ll keep you at a nice, peak horniness. A constant ache. You’ll thank me.”
“Margot, that’s…”
“What? Extreme?” She laughed. “Darling, I’m doing community service with my cunt. April was about charity. Giving a gift. May…” She gestured back to the calendar. May’s bull was a different build entirely. Broad-shouldered, an older man’s solid torso, the hood doing nothing to disguise the silvered hair on his chest. And prominently, even in the artistic shadow, the outline of a thick, heavy cock. “May will be about… experience. A different flavour. I’m looking forward to it. A widow. Late sixties. I wonder what he’ll feel like to fuck. All that patience, all that stored-up knowledge.”
She came to him, the plastic device in one hand. With the other, she unbuttoned his trousers. He didn’t fight her. His will felt liquified. She pushed his trousers and boxers down, handling his soft cock with clinical detachment. It stirred weakly under her touch, a pathetic response to the psychological maelstrom.
“See?” she murmured, aligning the device. “It already knows its new home.” She fitted the ring behind his balls, snug and cold. She guided his penis into the tube, which felt absurdly confining. A click, and she turned a tiny key. The lock snapped shut with a final, plastic sound. She pocketed the key. “All safe and sound.”
He looked down at himself, caged and ridiculous. A hot shame washed over him, followed by a bizarre, intense throb of arousal that had nowhere to go.
Margot cupped him through the plastic, squeezing just enough to make him gasp. The bell on her piercing tinkled as she moved.
“There now,” she said, her voice full of faux sympathy. “You can still get hard in there. You’ll just have nowhere to go. You’ll feel every pulse, every demand, and it will have to stay trapped. Think of it as… edging for months. And while you’re throbbing in your little cell, I’ll be out tasting history.” She leaned in, her lips brushing his. “I wonder if he’ll be gentle. Or if widows fuck with a particular kind of ruthless hunger. I’ll be sure to give you all the details.”
She stepped back, admiring her handiwork, her eyes gleaming with mischief and absolute control.
“Now,” she said, smoothing her dress. “Try to get some sleep. I imagine it might be a restless night.” She turned and left him there, standing alone in their bedroom, imprisoned by clear plastic and his wife’s boundless, terrifying imagination. The calendar on the wall seemed to pulse, the months ahead stretching into an obscene, exhilarating gauntlet designed solely for his exquisite torment.