Chapter 148: Fashion Show
The morning light was thin and pale through the bedroom curtains, doing little to lift the dense silence that had settled over the house since the previous afternoon. Rupert had slept in fits, the plastic cage a foreign ache, his dreams a jumble of ringing bells and faceless men. He found Margot already awake, standing before the full-length mirror, a package of scarlet silk in her hands.
“It arrived,” she said, her voice cool with satisfaction. She didn’t look at him. “The express courier brought it an hour ago. Excellent choice, darling.”
She let her robe slide from her shoulders. In the soft light, her skin was a landscape of familiar curves and freckles. The gold ring on her hood glinted, the tiny bell silent. With deliberate, theatrical slowness, she stepped into the chemise. The fabric was sinfully red, a sheer lace overlay on a silk base that did nothing to hide the dark shadow of her pubic hair or the dusky pink of her areolas. It clung to her hips, the hem brushing mid-thigh. She turned, examining herself.
“Well?” she asked, finally meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Do I look expensive? Fuckable?”
Rupert’s throat tightened. She did. She looked like a fantasy, one he had paid for but would never touch. “Yes.”
“Good.” She ran her hands over her own hips, a preview of another’s touch. “May will appreciate the quality. A widow on a pension doesn’t get to unwrap something like this every day.” She walked towards the bed and sat on the edge, spreading her knees just slightly. The scarlet silk gaped, offering a direct view. “Come here.”
He obeyed, standing before her. The scent of her, clean and warm from her shower, filled his senses.
“I’m already thinking about him,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the lace over her stomach. “A man in his seventies. All that experience. All that… pent-up energy. I bet he fucks like a thoroughbred.” She looked up at Rupert, her eyes glittering. “I want to be wet for him. Help me.”
She leaned back on her elbows, presenting herself. The command was absolute. Rupert sank to his knees on the carpet, the posture one of worship. The view was obscene: the scarlet silk pushed aside, her full cunt exposed, the gold ring a bizarre, beautiful adornment. He could see she was already growing slick.
“Go on,” she whispered. “Get me ready for my date.”
He leaned in. The first taste was a familiar, salty-sweet shock. He licked a slow stripe through her folds, and her body tensed. A soft sigh escaped her. He worked his tongue, circling her clit where the bell hung, feeling the cool metal against his lips. It remained silent, a dormant artifact.
“That’s it,” she breathed, her hips beginning to roll against his face. “Imagine it. A hotel room. A four-poster bed. Champagne on ice. And me, in your little gift, kneeling on the mattress, and this old man just… feasting.” Her voice hitched as his tongue found a rhythm. “He’ll bury his face right where you are. He’ll suck on this bell until it rings. He’ll make me scream into the pillows.”
Rupert’s cock throbbed, a pulse of agonizing pressure against the unyielding plastic. He ate her with a desperate fervor, trying to lose himself in the act, but her words painted the scene in brutal, vivid strokes.
“He’ll be big,” she gasped, her fingers knotting in his hair. “I can feel it. A widow, all those years of just his own hand… he’ll be desperate. He’s going to stretch me open, Rupert. He’s going to pound this married pussy until I forget my own name.”
Her thighs began to shake. Her moans grew louder, less controlled. The filthy monologue was her foreplay. “He might not even want a condom. Might want to feel it raw. Feel every fucking vein. Might want to creampie a woman half his age. Fill me up with his old-man seed. What would you think of that? If I came home leaking him?”
The image, coupled with the relentless motion of his tongue, tipped her over. Her back arched off the bed, a sharp cry tearing from her throat. She ground herself against his mouth, shuddering through the climax, her inner muscles fluttering against his tongue. He stayed there, lapping at her through the tremors, until she pushed his head away, spent.
She lay panting for a moment, the scarlet chemise rucked up around her waist. Then she sat up, swung her legs off the bed, and stood. She peeled the damp garment off in one fluid motion and tossed it onto the rumpled sheets. “Pack it in the garment bag. And get my weekend case. The black leather one.”
While he fetched the bag from the closet, she walked naked to her dresser, moving with a terrifying, purposeful energy. She opened a small lacquered box.
“We need to pack my work essentials,” she said, her tone now brisk, practical. “Come here.”
He placed the open case on the bed beside the chemise. She began handing him items.
A new box of condoms. Ribbed, extra thin.
A bottle of silicone-based lubricant.
A small, discreet vibrator.
A silk blindfold.
“Put them in the side pocket.”
He did, each item feeling like a tool for his own dismantling.
“The condoms are a courtesy,” she mused, watching him. “A formality. He may refuse. At his age, he might not even be fertile. The risk is… minimal.” She smiled, a slow, wicked thing. “It would be hotter without, wouldn’t it? For you? Knowing some geriatric stud was blowing his load deep in your wife’s cunt, marking what’s yours?”
Rupert’s hands stilled. He couldn’t speak.
“Maybe I’ll let him,” she decided, as if choosing a wine. “If he asks nicely. If he fucks me well enough. I could come home to you all loose and full. You could taste him on me later. Would you like that, Slave Blue?”
The use of the hood name was a calculated slap. He managed a stiff nod.
“I thought so.” She closed the lacquered box with a click. “Now, the chemise. Fold it carefully. It’s the star of the show.”
He folded the red silk, his fingers clumsy. It still carried the faint, musky scent of her arousal. He placed it in the garment bag, zipped it shut, and laid it across the suitcase.
“All set,” she said. She stepped into her underwear, then pulled on a sensible pair of trousers and a cashmere jumper—the picture of a respectable WI member heading out for the day. The transformation was complete. The voluptuous siren was gone, replaced by Margot from the village. Only the mischievous, ruthless glint in her eye remained.
She checked her watch. “My appointment is at three. I’ll be back for dinner. Leftovers are in the fridge.” She picked up her handbag, then paused at the bedroom door. She looked back at him, at the suitcase on the bed, at him still kneeling by the side of it.
“Remember,” she said, her voice light, conversational. “However good he is, however hard he makes me come, it’s you who sent me. You who dressed me. You who packed the bag.” She smiled. “This is all you, Rupert. Every bit of it.”
The door closed behind her. He heard her footsteps descend the stairs, the front door open and shut. The house settled into a profound, echoing quiet.
He remained on his knees, staring at the black leather case. It was just a bag. But it felt like a coffin for the last remnants of his old marriage. Inside it, the scarlet chemise was a flag of surrender. The optional condoms were a promise of a deeper violation. And the image she’d painted—of an older man, desperate and potent, taking what was his in a sunlit hotel room—was no longer just a fantasy.
It was an itinerary. And the afternoon was ticking away, each second carrying her closer to the moment that bell, silent now on the dresser, would finally, for someone else, begin to ring.