Chapter 147: Shopping Trip
The afternoon sun slanted across Rupert’s desk, illuminating columns of numbers that refused to coalesce into meaning. His concentration was a shattered thing. The memory of the WI meeting, the tastes, the sounds, the hollow chairs, played on a loop behind his eyes. The plastic cage was a constant, dull throb.
Margot breezed in, fresh from a shower, smelling of expensive bergamot. She wore a simple silk robe, belted loosely. The small gold bell on her piercing was silent, a dormant promise.
“I need something special for Thursday,” she announced, perching on the edge of his desk. A spreadsheet crinkled under her weight. “For Mr. May. Think ‘high-end escort’. The kind of thing you peel off, not pull down.”
Rupert’s mouth went dry. “I… I don’t know the first thing about that.”
“You’ll learn.” Her smile was bright, sharp. “Consider it a project. A crucial one. I want you to go online, browse, and select three options. Then I’ll choose the winner.” She leaned forward, the robe gaping slightly. “I want to see what you think is ‘fuckable’.”
The word hung in the quiet room, vulgar and intimate.
“Budget?” he managed, his accountant’s brain seizing on a technicality.
“Unlimited. It’s an investment.” She stood, smoothing the robe. “I’m going out for a few hours. I want my options when I get back. Get inspired.”
She left the room. A moment later, he heard the front door click shut. Silence descended, heavy and thick.
He opened his laptop, the familiar machine now a portal to a fresh hell. He typed ‘lingerie’ into a search engine, then, haltingly, added ‘luxury’ and ‘teddy’. The results were a kaleidoscope of lace, silk, and impossible bodies. He clicked. Scrolled. His cock strained uselessly against its plastic prison, a futile protest.
A notification pinged on his phone. A WhatsApp message from Margot.
He opened it. It was a photo. A close-up, dimly lit. A young man’s cock, erect, jutting from an open fly. It was lean, long, the head flushed a deep pink. In the background, he could see the edge of a teenage bedroom: a gaming chair, a poster for a sci-fi film. Caption: April’s progress. Needs a firm hand.
Rupert’s stomach clenched. He dropped the phone like it was hot. He stared at the screen of his laptop, a black lace bodysuit with cut-outs mocking him. The image of that cock, in that room, burned into his vision. This was the boy. The virgin. The ‘April project’. Now, being given a ‘workout’.
Another ping. Another photo. This one was from a lower angle. Margot’s hand, her familiar rings adorning her fingers, was wrapped around the base of the boy’s shaft. Her thumb stroked the underside. Caption: Teaching him where the frenulum is. So sensitive.
Rupert made a sound, a low groan trapped in his throat. He was hard, painfully so, the cage biting into his flesh. He clicked on a sheer mesh teddy, adding it to a cart he didn’t want to fill. The price was astronomical.
His phone pinged a third time. A video this time. He thumbed it open, his hand shaking.
The video was shaky, intimate. It was shot from Margot’s perspective, looking down her own body. Her other hand was between her legs, fingers working her own wetness, spreading it. The little gold bell swung, tinkling softly with her movements. Then the camera shifted, aiming down at the boy’s lap as she guided him towards her. There was a clumsy, eager thrust. A muffled, youthful gasp off-camera. Then Margot’s voice, breathy and instructional: “There. Now, slow. Circle your hips. Yes… fuck, just like that.”
Rupert watched, transfixed, as the boy’s hips began to move in short, shallow strokes. The video was raw, the sounds visceral: wet skin slapping, a bedspring creaking, the boy’s ragged breathing. Margot’s fingers were still on her clit, rubbing in tight circles as she was fucked.
“You’re going to make me come on your little virgin prick,” she moaned, her voice a filthy whisper. “You want that? To feel an older woman clamp down on you?”
The boy grunted something affirmative. The pace increased, becoming less rhythmic, more frantic. The camera angle bobbed wildly. Margot’s breathing hitched, then broke into a series of sharp, panting cries. “Yes… yes… god, don’t stop… fill me up…”
The video ended abruptly.
Rupert sat frozen. The arousal was a physical pain, a fire in his gut with no release. The humiliation was colder, seeping into his bones. She was with him now. Right now. While he shopped for lingerie for her next encounter.
He returned to the browser window, his vision blurred. He selected a scarlet lace chemise. Added a black silk babydoll with garter straps. His choices felt grotesque, a pathetic attempt to exert some control over a situation that was utterly, devastatingly beyond him. He was curating the costume for his own cuckolding.
Another message. A photo of Margot’s face, flushed, sweaty, her red curls sticking to her forehead. She was smiling, a deep, satisfied, carnal smile. Behind her, a blurry shape of a young man collapsing onto a bed. Caption: A quick study. Two loads already. Think he can go for three? Shopping going well?
Rupert typed back, his fingers numb. Found a few options.
Send pics, she replied instantly. Of the lingerie. And yourself. Show me how hard it makes you.
He took screenshots of his selections. Then, with a tremor of self-loathing, he stood, unzipped his trousers, and took a photo of the plastic cage, his trapped and swollen flesh clearly visible behind the clear shell. He sent it all.
The reply was immediate. A thumbs-up emoji. Then: The red one. Order it. Express delivery. I want to see you wrap it Thursday morning before I go to him.
He completed the purchase. The confirmation email felt like a sentencing document.
The front door opened an hour later. Margot’s footsteps were light, buoyant. She hummed a little tune. She appeared in his office doorway, radiating a glowing, spent energy. She leaned against the frame, assessing him.
“Well?” she asked.
“The red chemise. It’s ordered.”
“Good.” She walked over, put a hand on his shoulder. She smelled different. Of sex, of young male sweat, of something musky and foreign. “You should have seen him, Rupert. So eager. So… potent. By the third time, he was fucking me like a proper little stud. Holding my hips, really pounding away.” She sighed, a contented sound. “It’s so rewarding, teaching them.”
Rupert couldn’t speak. He looked at her, at the woman he’d married, and saw a vibrant, ruthless stranger.
“April sends his thanks, by the way,” she said, her eyes glinting. “He said to tell you I’m the best fuck he’s ever had.” She leaned down, her lips close to his ear. Her whisper was a hot, shocking violation. “And he’s right. Now… just you wait until you meet Mr. May.”
She kissed his cheek, a chaste, poisonous gesture, and left the room. The tiny bell on her body was silent, but in the quiet house, Rupert could still hear it. He could hear it in the memory of the video, tinkling with each of that boy’s thrusts. He realized, with a cold, sinking certainty, that it would ring in his head forever. And on Thursday, it would ring for someone else, in a hotel room, while he sat here in his cage, wrapping red lace in tissue paper.
He looked at the garden through his window. The light was fading. The ordinary world was going on. Somewhere out there, in the neat houses of the village, was a widow with rough hands. A man who had no idea he was already starring in Rupert’s private, relentless horror. He was out there right now, perhaps thinking about his own lonely hands, unaware of the package that was already, irrevocably, on its way.