Chapter 151: Slut On Call
The fire crackled, the only sound besides Rupert’s ragged breathing muffled by the blue leather hood. Margot looked at him, bent over the back of the sofa, trousers around his knees, his arse offered up to her. She wiped her wet fingers on his shirt.
“Stay just like that,” she said, her voice conversational, as if discussing the weather. She walked around to the front of the sofa, sank into the cushions, and regarded the submissive figure before her. In the large mirror across the room, the reflection was obscene: her, fully clothed on the sofa, him, hooded and exposed, the firelight glinting off the plastic cage peeking from between his legs.
She reached out and trailed a finger along the seam of his buttocks. He flinched.
“So, while you were here, locked and useless,” she began, “I had a lovely chat with the concierge. Alain.”
A muffled whimper from under the hood.
“He’s very sharp. Thought I was a working girl. A high-class whore.” She chuckled, the sound warm and dangerous. “Can you imagine? Me, selling it.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a confiding whisper, though there was no one else to hear. “I didn’t correct him. Not at first. I let him think it.”
Her fingers returned to him, rubbing slow circles over his clenched hole. “He offered me his card. Said he has discerning guests who get lonely. That he could use a reliable… companion.”
Rupert’s body went rigid. A low moan escaped the mouth-hole of the hood.
“Mmhm,” Margot purred, applying more pressure. “I told him the truth, of course. Well, our truth. That I’m a married slut. That this is a gift for my cuckold husband.” She pushed a single finger inside him, just past the knuckle. He gasped, his back arching. “His face was priceless, Slave Blue. Absolutely priceless. And then he suggested something beautiful.”
She worked her finger deeper, feeling the tight, hot resistance of his body. “He said if I was ever looking for a venue, for my… projects… he could facilitate it. He could call me. I could come to the hotel, fuck a complete stranger in a five-star suite, and you’d never know who it was, or where. You’d just know I’d been out, being a whore.”
She added a second finger, stretching him. His breathing became frantic, shallow pants. “It’s perfect, isn’t it? The anonymity. The luxury. You could be sitting next to one of my bulls at the pub, at the train station, buying your paper from him, and you’d have no idea his cock was buried in my pussy the night before.” She curled her fingers, searching. “It makes the whole world a potential humiliation for you.”
She found it then, the small, firm knot of his prostate. She pressed against it.
Rupert cried out, a sharp, broken sound. His hips jerked, but the plastic cage prevented any real movement. Pre-cum beaded uselessly at its tip.
“There we are,” Margot whispered, massaging the spot with rhythmic pressure. “That’s all you get. This. While I get thick, real cocks. I get filled up. I get used.”
She described it then, as her fingers fucked him slowly, deliberately. “Alain’s card is cream linen. Just a number. So discreet. I’m going to text him tomorrow. Tell him I’m… available.” She increased her tempo, her fingers sliding in and out with a wet, obscene sound. “I wonder who he’ll find for me? Another powerful old man like May? Or someone completely different. A businessman in town for a night. Maybe someone younger. Rough.”
Rupert was shaking, his hands gripping the sofa fabric so tightly his knuckles were white. His moans were continuous now, a stream of helpless sound.
“You’re going to be so desperate,” she continued, her own breath starting to hitch as she watched his debasement. “Months of this. Months of me coming home slick with other men, my cunt stretched, my tits bruised, the smell of their sweat and their cum on my skin. And you’ll just get my fingers in your arse. Maybe my strap-on, if you’re very good. Never my cunt. That’s for them.”
She scissored her fingers, stretching him wider. “You’re going to lick me clean every time. Like you did tonight. You’re going to swallow every drop they put in me. That’s your conjugal right. The right of the cuckold. To taste, but never to have.”
His legs began to tremble. A sharp, strangled cry was torn from him.
“Come on, Slave Blue,” she commanded, her voice harsh. “Do it. Milk that pathetic little prostate. Come in your cage. Show me what my stories do to you.”
With a final, targeted press and a furious rhythm of her fingers, he broke. A wordless, guttural shout erupted from the hood. His body convulsed, back bowing, as he was wracked by a dry, agonizing orgasm. Spasms coursed through him, his locked cock straining painfully against its plastic prison, spurting nothing but a thin, clear fluid.
Margot watched, fascinated, as he collapsed forward over the sofa back, utterly spent, his entire body shuddering through the aftershocks. She slowly withdrew her fingers, slick with his arousal. She held them up to the firelight, then brought them to the mouth-hole of his hood.
“Clean them,” she ordered, her voice flat.
With a weak, exhausted turn of his head, he took her fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean with a defeated, obedient tenderness.
She pulled her hand free and stood up, looking down at the wrecked form of her husband. She stroked the top of his leather-hooded head, a bizarrely tender gesture. “Good boy,” she murmured. “You took that so well.”
In the mirror, she saw her own reflection: curls mussed, cheeks flushed, a smile of pure, savage ownership on her lips. The antique clock ticked loudly in the corner, marking another hour of his denial, another hour of her freedom.
She left him there, hobbling to clean himself up, and went to the hall. From her purse, she retrieved the cream linen business card. She ran her thumb over the embossed number. Then, taking out her phone, she typed a message.
Alain, this is Margot. From this afternoon. I am available for discreet appointments. Please let me know of any opportunities. I trust your discretion completely.
She sent it. The whoosh of the message leaving her phone felt like the release of a sluice gate. A new, deeper current of their life together was now flowing, dark and irresistible.
She walked back to the living room doorway. Rupert had managed to pull his trousers up, but he still wore the blue hood, sitting slumped on the edge of the sofa, a shell of a man.
Her phone pinged. A reply.
Margot. A pleasure to hear from you. I may have a situation tomorrow evening. A gentleman from Zurich, staying in the Penthouse Suite. Shall we say 9pm? I will meet you at the service entrance.
A jolt of pure adrenaline shot through her. So soon. She looked at Rupert, at the blue leather hood that hid his face, his shame, his fractured identity.
“Slave Blue,” she said, her voice bright, almost cheerful.
He lifted his hooded head slowly.
“Polish my shoes,” she instructed. “The black heels. I have a penthouse appointment tomorrow night.”