Chapter 145: The Comparison Game
The aftermath of his dry orgasm left Rupert hollowed out and trembling. Julia led him, still hooded and stumbling, to the tiled corner she’d mentioned. It was a discreet wet room area, with a central drain in the floor and a handheld shower hose on the wall. The tiles were cold against his knees.
“Stay,” Julia commanded, her voice echoing slightly off the hard surfaces.
He heard her footsteps recede, then the sound of a cabinet opening and closing. He knelt, the cold seeping into his bones, the plastic cage a sore, familiar weight. The memory of her finger inside him, the shocking violation that had forced that pathetic, empty climax, played on a loop in his mind. Shame was a hot flush beneath the leather hood.
Julia returned. He saw her black boots stop directly before him. “Look up, Slave Blue.”
Through the eyeholes, his world was framed by her thighs, the dark wool of her trousers. She undid the button and zip, pushing the fabric down her hips just enough. She wore simple black cotton underwear. These she hooked with her thumbs and slid down.
Her pubic hair was neat, silvered. Her vulva, in his limited, upward view, was a pale fold of flesh. It was a profoundly intimate and yet utterly impersonal sight.
“My bladder is full after breakfast,” she said conversationally, as if remarking on the weather. “Time to relieve myself… on you.”
There was a moment of pure, silent anticipation. Rupert’s breath caught. Then he heard it, a soft, hissing sound, like rain on leaves. A hot, sudden stream splashed against the leather over his forehead, blinding the eyeholes for a second. It trickled down the mask, seeping into the mouth slit.
The scent was sharp, ammoniac, and powerfully human. The urine was warm, almost hot, a shocking contrast to the chill of the tiles. It coursed over his head, down his neck, onto his shoulders and chest. It pooled in the hollow of his collarbone before running in rivulets down his torso.
Julia adjusted her stance slightly. The stream intensified, pattering directly onto his chest now, soaking the hair there, running in hot streams down his stomach. It was a deluge of abject humiliation. He was a toilet. An object. Less than an object.
“This is what you are for,” she stated, her voice calm and measured over the steady, splashing sound. “A receptacle. A thing for waste. While your wife is out getting her cunt stretched by real men, you’ll be here, on your knees, remembering your place. You’ll think of that old widow in May, fucking her with his big, lonely cock. You’ll wonder if he’s thicker than the virgin boy. You’ll imagine her moaning for him, begging him to fill her up, while you’re here, swallowing my piss.”
The words were as corrosive as the liquid. They seeped into him alongside the warmth soaking his skin. He could taste it at the corner of his lips, bitter and salty. He fought the gag reflex, swallowing hard.
The stream began to falter, becoming a trickle, then a few last hot drops that landed on his knee. She let the silence hang, heavy with the stench of urine and degradation.
He heard the rustle of her pulling her underwear and trousers back up.
Then, a new sound. The metallic shriek of the hose being pulled from its bracket. A click.
The jet of water that hit him was icy. It was a physical shock, a brutal slap that made him cry out. It hammered his chest, driving the breath from his lungs, scouring the warmth and the smell from his skin. He gasped, shivering violently.
“Clean the filth off, Slave Blue,” Julia said, directing the powerful, cold spray over every part of him. It stung his clamped nipples, blasted his caged groin, forced its way under the edges of the hood to rinse his hair. “This is all you get. A cold shower. While Margot is getting warmed up from the inside by a proper fucking.”
She worked the hose methodically, a brutal baptism. The water pooled around him, swirling yellow before disappearing down the drain.
“That widow,” she continued, her tone almost gossipy now, as if they were discussing village plans over a fence. “Margot showed me his picture. Rugged. Looks like he works with his hands. She’s betting he’s a selfish fuck. The kind who rams it in, takes his pleasure, and rolls over. She says she might have to teach him a thing or two. Remind him what a hungry woman needs.” She aimed the spray directly at his face. “She’s going to suck him first, you know. Get that old dick nice and hard. She loves the taste of a man who hasn’t had a woman in years. Says it’s potent.”
Rupert was shuddering uncontrollably, his teeth chattering. The cold was in his marrow. The images were in his head, vivid and unwelcome: Margot on her knees before a grey-haired stranger, her red lips parted, her wicked eyes looking up.
Julia turned off the water. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the drip-drip from his body and his ragged, hitching breaths.
She tossed a coarse, white towel at him. It landed in a wet heap by his knees. “Dry yourself. Then the hood comes off. You’ll get dressed in your mundane little clothes. You’ll go home. You’ll make your wife a cup of tea and ask her about her day. And you will not ask about her plans for May. You will wait. You will ache. You will listen for that little bell on her pussy and know it doesn’t ring for you.”
He fumbled with the towel, his numb fingers struggling to rub life back into his icy skin. The smell of chlorine from the towel mixed with the faint, lingering scent of urine. Eventually, he was merely damp and freezing.
“Hood off.”
He peeled the soaked leather up and over his head. The dungeon air felt strangely warm on his naked face. He blinked, his vision blurry. Julia stood before him, looking perfectly composed, not a hair out of place.
“Get dressed, Rupert,” she said, using his real name. It sounded foreign, a name belonging to a ghost of a man. “The session is over. Your sentence continues.”
He pulled on the grey sweatpants and t-shirt. The fabric clung to his damp, chilled skin. He felt porous, empty, as if the humiliation had scoured him out from the inside.
She led him back upstairs, through the mundane perfection of her living room, and to the front door. Margot was waiting in the car, scrolling through her phone. She looked up as he approached, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her face.
He slid into the passenger seat, the cold plastic of the chastity device pressing into him, a relentless, tender reminder.
“Good session?” Margot asked brightly, starting the engine.
He looked out the window at the passing countryside, green and normal. “Yes,” he whispered, the word tasting of lies and ashes and bitter salt.
“Wonderful,” she said, reaching over to pat his knee. “Now, be a dear and ring for a curry tonight. I’m absolutely ravenous.”
And as she drove, her bell jingled softly with every bump in the road, a tiny, mocking percussion to the silent scream building in his chest.