Chapter 156: Dice Consequences
The heavy curtain to the main room whispered open again, and people began to file in.
Rupert watched, a statue in his glass cell. They came in couples, mostly, sometimes small groups, chatting softly as they chose their seats on the banked tiers facing the bed. They were dressed in everything from elegant evening wear to fetish gear—latex, leather, silk robes left open. They held glasses of wine, their eyes bright with anticipation. He counted, his accountant’s mind seizing on the trivial task to avoid the yawning horror. Fifteen. Twenty-three. Thirty-seven. The room hummed with a low, expectant murmur.
Finally, the host with the shaved head walked to the center of the floor, a wireless microphone in his hand. The spotlight shifted to him.
“Good evening, ladies, gentlemen, and all deviants in between,” he began, his voice smooth and amplified, echoing slightly in the space. A ripple of laughter went through the audience. “Welcome to our little theatre. Tonight’s performance is a bespoke production, a gift from one very imaginative wife to her… dedicated husband.”
The host’s gaze swept the audience, then lifted directly, intentionally, towards Rupert’s dark booth. Rupert flinched inside his hood.
“Our heroine, the magnificent Margot, found her marriage needed… a spark. A conflagration, perhaps. She gifted her husband an advent calendar. But not for chocolates. For experiences.” He paced slowly. “Each month, a new friend. A new adventure. And our husband, bless him, agreed. He even rolled the dice to determine the intensity of tonight’s final act before the grand finale in July.”
He paused for effect. The audience leaned forward.
“He rolled a nine.”
A few whistles, some applause.
“Yes, a nine. And so, the premise of our evening: nine gentlemen. Nine strangers. Nine cocks. One wife. All for his education, and her… satisfaction.”
The crowd murmured its approval, a hungry sound. Rupert’s knees felt weak. The plastic cage around his useless cock seemed to contract, a painful mockery. Nine. The number from the dice, the secret that had lurked behind June’s black star. It wasn’t a date. It was a statistic.
“Without further ado,” the host announced, “let us meet our performers. Our beautiful, eager Margot.”
Margot, still splayed on the PVC, waved a hand, her smile radiant, defiant. She looked utterly in her element.
“And our gentlemen.”
A door opened behind the host. They filed in, one after another, a procession of masculine forms. All were hooded, their faces obscured by full leather hoods in black, dark brown, grey. They wore nothing else. Their bodies were a study in variation—some lean, some powerfully built, one with a soft middle, another ridged with muscle. And their cocks, in states of semi or full arousal, were the only points of identification. Thick, thin, curved, straight, cut, uncut. The audience appraised them with clinical interest.
They lined up at the foot of the bed, a silent, intimidating battalion. Nine of them. The host stepped aside.
“The stage is yours.”
The first bull, tall and broad-shouldered, stepped onto the PVC. The material crackled under his weight. He stood over Margot, his erection bobbing near her face. She didn’t wait. She turned her head and took him into her mouth, deep, one hand wrapping around his base.
Rupert’s breath fogged the inside of his hood. He couldn’t look away.
Margot serviced the first with a hungry expertise, her head bobbing, saliva glistening. The small bell on her piercing tinkled faintly with her movement. When the man grunted and pulled back, she released him with a pop and looked to the next.
He was already kneeling between her spread legs. He didn’t bother with preamble. He shoved two fingers inside her, crooked them, and Margot’s back arched off the bed with a sharp cry. “Fuck yes,” she moaned, the microphone picking up every gasp.
“Wet already,” the bull said, his voice muffled by his hood. He positioned himself and drove his cock into her in one brutal thrust.
Margot screamed, a raw sound of pure sensation. Her hands flew to his ass, pulling him deeper into her. The PVC squeaked and protested beneath their joined bodies.
Rupert watched, a ghost in a blue leather shell. This was the core of her plan. His humiliation was not private; it was communal. A spectacle. Every groan from his wife, every slap of flesh from a stranger, was for an audience. He was just the primary viewer.
The first bull hadn’t finished. As the second pounded into her, the first came back to her mouth, guiding himself past her lips. She took him again, gagging slightly as the man fucking her cunt picked up his pace.
The audience was rapt, some touching themselves or their partners, others watching with intense, academic focus.
The third bull moved to the head of the bed. He leaned over, his coarse hands squeezing Margot’s breasts, pinching her nipples hard. She writhed between the two men, a moan trapped around the cock in her mouth.
The man at her cunt came with a guttural shout, pulsing inside her. He pulled out, his semen dripping onto the shiny black surface. Another immediately took his place, his entry slick with the previous man’s spend.
The rhythm became chaotic, brutal. They used her in shifts, a relentless, rotating assembly line of flesh. One fucked her mouth while another took her cunt, a third would stand over her, jerking himself off onto her stomach and breasts. The warm, pearly streaks painted her skin, glazing the red curls of her pubic hair.
“That’s it, fill her up,” one of the hooded men grunted, his hands gripping her hips as he slammed home.
“Such a greedy fucking slut,” another muttered, pushing her head down onto his companion’s shaft.
Margot’s responses were reduced to primal, guttural sounds. “More,” she choked out around a mouthful of cock. “Don’t stop. Give it all to me.”
The bell chimed incessantly, a frantic, metallic counterpoint to the symphony of grunts and slaps.
The sixth bull entered her from behind, rolling her onto her knees. He drove into her with such force she almost collapsed onto her face. Another bull knelt before her, feeding her his length as she was taken from the back. Her eyes, glazed with lust, flickered open. They found the dark glass of Rupert’s booth. Through the sweat and the strain, she smiled. A sharp, victorious smile. This is for you, it said. This is what you couldn’t give me.
The eighth man was the largest. His entry made her scream again, a sound that bordered on pain before melting into feral pleasure. He held her ankles in the air, spread wide, as he pistoned into her, the sight of his thick cock plunging into her well-used cunt displayed openly to the crowd. They cheered.
The ninth and final bull waited until the eighth had finished, his own cock raging. He didn’t even enter her. He stood over her face as she lay spent on her back, and with a few rough strokes, orgasmed, painting her features with thick, white stripes.
It ended as suddenly as it began. The nine men, their bodies gleaming with sweat, stepped back. They filed out the way they came, silent once more.
Margot lay wrecked on the stained PVC, her body trembling, covered in the evidence of the nine strangers. The audience rose to their feet in a standing ovation, the sound muffled in Rupert’s soundproof booth. The host returned, helping Margot to sit up. He handed her a towel. She wiped her face slowly, her eyes never leaving the dark window behind which her husband watched.
She stood, her legs shaky but deliberate. She walked to the edge of the stage, directly facing his booth. She dropped the soiled towel.
In the silent theatre of his prison, her voice came clear through the speaker, amplified for all to hear. It was hoarse, used, and utterly triumphant.
“Happy June, darling.”