Chapter 146: Sub-Committee
The plastic chastity device had become a part of him, a constant, aching presence. It chafed. It pressed. It reminded. Rupert moved through his days in a haze of low-grade arousal and profound shame, the memory of Julia’s urine scalding him far more than the water ever had.
The invitation to the WI Summer Fete sub-committee meeting arrived on crisp cardstock. Margot left it on his keyboard. “You’ll be attending, of course. In a service capacity,” she’d said, her tone leaving no room for discussion.
Now, he knelt in a small antechamber off Julia’s main dungeon—the ‘slave changing room’. It was utilitarian: a bench, a locker, a full-length mirror. He avoided his own eyes in the glass as he shrugged off his clothes. The blue leather hood felt heavier this time, the eyeholes a tunnel. He pulled it on, the world narrowing to a circle of light and sound. He was Slave Blue again. The mundane accountant named Rupert was packed away with his corduroy trousers.
Julia entered, carrying a stack of crisp linen. “The meeting is about to begin. You will crawl into the meeting room through the service hatch after the greetings are concluded. You will position yourself under the central table. You will not make a sound. You will service whichever lady slides her chair back. You will continue until the meeting adjourns or you are physically unable. Understood?”
“Yes, Mistress Julia.”
“Good. Margot has been looking forward to this.”
The meeting room was not part of the dungeon. It was Julia’s formal dining room, all polished oak and tasteful landscapes. But the chairs, he saw as he peered from the low service hatch, were different. They were elegant, upholstered in a floral chintz, but the seats were bizarrely hollowed out into a wide, horseshoe shape.
Four women were already seated. Julia at the head. Margot to her right, wearing a light summer dress. Two other women Rupert recognized from the village: Eleanor, the stern postmistress, and Susan, the chatty primary school headteacher. They all had teacups and notepads. They looked every inch the respectable Women’s Institute committee.
“So, the coconut shy is sorted,” Susan was saying. “But the tombola prizes are looking a bit thin.”
“I’ll have a word with the butcher,” Eleanor replied, her voice crisp.
Rupert crawled. The carpet was thick, swallowing any sound. He moved into the dark cavity beneath the large oval table. It was a forest of chair legs and stockinged calves. The air was warm, perfumed with lavender and rosewater.
“Before we get too deep into the logistics,” Margot said, her voice sweetly clear above him, “I had the most interesting follow-up this week.”
A silence, ripe with complicity.
“Go on, dear,” Julia prompted.
“My April project. The virgin.” Margot let the word hang. Rupert saw her calves shift, her feet pushing her chair back slightly. The hollow seat was directly above him now. “Well, he’s a fast learner. Eager to please. I gave him a second go. And a third.”
Beneath the table, Rupert’s breath hitched. He stared up at the shadowed apex of Margot’s thighs, visible through the horseshoe seat. She wasn’t wearing underwear.
“Three times?” Susan giggled, a surprisingly girlish sound. “Goodness.”
“He needed the practice. All enthusiasm, no technique at first. Came in about thirty seconds flat the first time, poor lamb. But I’ve been training him. Teaching him where a clit is, for a start.” She took a sip of tea. “I think I’ll give him a few more goes over the summer. Send him off to university with a proper education. Those fresher girls won’t know what hit them.”
Eleanor chuckled. “A community service, really.”
“That’s how I see it,” Margot agreed. Her hand dropped from the tabletop, a silent command.
Rupert knew his role. He edged forward on his elbows. The scent of her, musky and familiar, filled his hood. He could see the delicate gold ring through her clit hood, the tiny bell hanging silent. He pressed his mouth to her.
She was already wet. He licked, slow and flat, the way she used to like before all this. A soft, approving sigh drifted down from the conversation above.
“The jam judging is always a fraught business,” Julia said, her voice steady as a metronome. “We’ll need extra security on the table.”
“I’ll see to it,” Eleanor said. Rupert felt a different set of calves shift near his head. Eleanor’s feet moved, her chair scraping back an inch. A new scent, more austere, joined Margot’s. Wool skirt, starch.
Margot continued, her hips making the faintest movement against Rupert’s tongue. “My May appointment, though. That’s what I’m truly anticipating. A complete change of pace.”
Rupert’s tongue faltered. A sharp pinch on his earlobe from Margot’s hand corrected him. He resumed, mechanically.
“The widow?” Susan asked, her voice hushed.
“Mmm. Met him at the gardening centre. Lovely hands. Rough. You can just tell he’s… substantial. Lonely, too. It’s practically a charity act.” Her fingers twisted in Rupert’s hair, guiding his head, demanding more pressure. “I’m hoping he’s the selfish type. Just wants to get his rocks off. I want him to use me. I want to feel stretched. Properly filled. It’s been too long since I’ve had a real good, mindless pounding.”
The language, so crude amidst the talk of jams and tombolas, was a violence. Rupert felt his caged cock twitch, a pathetic, traitorous pulse. He hated himself for it.
Eleanor’s leg brushed his shoulder. An invitation, or an accident? He hesitated, his mouth full of Margot.
“Don’t be rude, Slave Blue,” Margot whispered down, just for him. Then, aloud, “Eleanor, dear, do feel free. He’s quite proficient.”
A moment later, Eleanor’s skirt was lifted. She wore stockings with seams, and plain white cotton briefs. These were drawn aside. Rupert turned his head, Margot’s taste still on his lips, and applied his mouth to Eleanor. She was drier, tighter. Her thigh muscle tensed under his cheek.
The conversation flowed over him, a surreal soundtrack to his depravity.
“…and the bunting must be cotton, not plastic…”
Eleanor began to move, a slight, controlled rocking against his face. Her breathing, previously so measured, grew shallow.
“…the widow’s hands, you say? My Harold had working man’s hands. Never knew his own strength, sometimes…”
Margot’s bell gave a faint, clear ting as she shifted, grinding herself more firmly onto Rupert’s mouth. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”
Susan, emboldened, pushed her chair back. “Well, if it’s a communal resource…” she tittered.
Soon, Rupert was turned, repositioned. His world became a cycle of different textures, different tastes: Margot’s familiar tang, Eleanor’s clean, soapy flavor, Susan’s surprising sweetness. He was an appliance passed between them. His jaw ached. His neck screamed. The plastic cage dug into his flesh, a brutal counterpoint to the soft, wet flesh on his tongue.
The women’s voices grew softer, more punctuated by sighs and hitched breaths. Notepads were forgotten.
“He’s determined, I’ll give him that,” Susan murmured, her hand coming down to rest on the back of Rupert’s hood, pushing him deeper.
“He has his uses,” Margot said. Her voice was strained, approaching its peak. “Just… just think… next week… it’ll be a thick, old cock in me… not this… not this tongue…”
Her words were the final trigger. Eleanor came first, with a sharp, stifled gasp and a flood of bitterness on Rupert’s tongue. Susan followed, moaning softly about the quality of the Victoria sponges. Margot held out the longest, her fingers vice-like in his hair, her bell jingling a frantic, tiny anthem as she rocked and clenched and finally let go with a long, shuddering exhalation that sounded almost like relief.
For a moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing and the rustle of clothing being straightened.
Julia, who had not participated, finally spoke. “Excellent. I think we’re all in agreement on the bunting, then. Meeting adjourned.”
Chairs scraped back fully. Legs, slightly unsteady, retreated from Rupert’s vision. He lay on the carpet, spent, his face wet with the evidence of his labour. The taste of three women coated his mouth, a composite humiliation.
The service hatch opened. Julia’s boots appeared. “Back to the changing room. Clean yourself up. Margot will collect you shortly.”
He crawled back through the tunnel. In the changing room, he rinsed his mouth in a small sink, the water doing little to erase the flavors. He dressed in his ordinary clothes over his soiled, sticky skin. The hood came off. Rupert stared at the bland man in the mirror.
Margot was quiet on the drive home. The bell on her piercing was silent. Finally, as they turned onto their street, she spoke.
“You did adequately,” she said, staring straight ahead. “Eleanor was impressed. She might request you for… a private consultation.”
Rupert said nothing. The ghost of Susan’s sweetness was in his throat.
“I’ve confirmed the date for May,” Margot continued, a smile in her voice. “Next Thursday. He’s booked a hotel room. A whole afternoon.” She glanced over, her eyes gleaming. “I’ll need you to pick out my underwear. Something he can easily rip off.”
He nodded, a mechanical twitch of his head. The cage felt heavier than ever. It was no longer just a restraint. It was a prophecy. While Margot spent an afternoon being stretched and pounded by a stranger’s substantial, lonely cock, he would be here. In this cage. Remembering the taste of the Women’s Institute.
The car pulled into the drive. The house awaited, quiet and normal. A tomb for the man he used to be.