Chapter 157: Party Favour
The silence in the booth after Margot’s words was absolute, a vacuum that pressed in on Rupert’s ears. He stared down at her triumphant, ruined form, the plastic cage around his cock a torturous, unyielding prison. He was painfully, shamefully hard inside it, a fact that sickened him.
The door behind him hissed open.
He didn’t turn. Leather creaked, and a presence entered the small, dark space. A hand, sheathed in black latex, came to rest on his shoulder. The scent of ozone and lily of the valley cut through the stale air.
“Did you enjoy the show, Slave Blue?”
It was a woman’s voice, cool and smooth as the latex. He recognized it. The host, the shaved-head woman from the lobby. He could only manage a faint, ragged breath.
Her fingers dug in, not painfully, but with absolute authority. “The gentlemen who volunteered for your wife’s… education… have partners. Wives, girlfriends. They watched. They found it very stimulating.” She leaned closer, her voice a whisper in his ear-hole. “Now it’s your turn to be of service. Consider it a courtesy. A way to contribute.”
Before he could process the words, a heavy blindfold was cinched tight over his hood’s eye-holes, plunging him into utter blackness. He gasped. Metal cuffs, cold and precise, clamped around his wrists behind his back, locking with a series of definitive clicks.
“Easy,” the latex woman murmured. Her hands were on his hips, turning him. “This will only hurt if you struggle.”
He felt the waistband of his trousers and underpants being tugged down to his knees. A cool lubricant was smoothed over his anus. He jerked, but her grip was firm.
“Relax. This is part of your toolkit now.”
The intrusion was sudden, a thick, silicone pressure that breached him with clinical efficiency. He cried out, the sound muffled by his hood. It was not just a plug; it was an object with a pronounced bulbous head that stretched him open before settling inside with a final, shameful pop. A tiny, trailing wire was tucked against his skin.
“Remote controlled,” she said conversationally, pulling his clothes back up. “A little motivation to be… enthusiastic.”
A leash was clipped to the ring at the front of his hood. She gave it a testing pull that snapped his head forward. “Come.”
Disoriented and bound, he was led from the booth. The sounds of the club returned, but distorted, amplified by his blindness. The murmur of conversation, laughter, the clink of glasses. He was walked for what felt like a minute, the carpet giving way to cool, hard floor. The air changed, smelling of spirits, perfume, and sweat.
The leash went slack. “On your knees.”
He hesitated. A sharp, violent buzz erupted inside him, the plug vibrating with a brutal, deep intensity. He groaned, his legs buckling, and collapsed onto hands and knees on the hard floor. The vibration ceased, leaving a throbbing aftershock.
“Good boy.”
A new voice, female, light and amused, floated from directly in front of him. “Is this him? The cuckold?”
“This is Slave Blue,” the latex woman confirmed. “Fresh from watching his wife take nine loads. He’s eager to show his gratitude.”
“Aw. Let’s see then.”
A hand, soft and smelling of jasmine, guided his head forward. His face was pressed into warm, bare skin. The musky, salty scent of a woman’s arousal filled his nostrils. Fingers tangled in the leather of his hood, positioning him. “Lick,” the voice commanded.
His tongue, clumsy and dry, swiped out. He found soft folds, already slick and swollen. He licked again, a broad, tentative stroke.
“Oh, for God’s sake, like you mean it,” the woman sighed, shifting her hips. “My husband was the third one in her. Big, thick cock. Made her scream. Thinking about him plowing your pretty wife got me so wet. Now clean it up.”
The words were a dagger. The third one. The one who had pinned her ankles and… Rupert’s mind shattered. A raw, desperate noise escaped him. He opened his mouth and pressed his face into her, his tongue driving deeper, seeking out her clit with a frantic, punishing rhythm. He wanted to drown in the taste of her, to erase the images with this one.
“Yes, that’s it,” the woman moaned, her fingers tightening in his hair. “Use that tongue, cuck. Pretend it’s her.”
He sucked and licked, the metallic chime of Margot’s bell echoing in his memory, now syncing with the wet, slurping sounds he made. The woman’s breath hitched. Her thighs tensed around his head. With a sharp cry, she ground herself against his mouth, her climax wet and rushing over his tongue. She held him there, trembling, until she pushed his head away with a contented sigh.
He knelt, panting, his chin slick.
“Not bad,” she said. He heard the rustle of a dress being smoothed down. “Next!”
He was pulled by the leash, shuffled on his knees a few feet. Another set of legs. Different perfume. Darker, spicier.
“Mine was the one who came on her face,” this voice was lower, smoky. “The finalé. I love watching him mark a woman. Get to work.”
This time, Rupert didn’t hesitate. He buried his face with a furious hunger, his tongue lapping at her, fucking her with short, sharp jabs. He was a machine of atonement. The plug in his ass remained dormant, a silent threat.
“Talk about the show,” the latex woman prompted, somewhere above him.
The woman above him obliged, her voice a purring taunt. “She’s tighter than I expected. Your wife. Took all of him, deep in her throat. Swallowed every drop when he was in her mouth. Do you swallow, cuck?”
Rupert moaned into her, the vibration making her gasp. Her hands clamped on his head, riding his face. “Yes! Just like that. God, the way she begged for more… it’s so hot knowing my husband ruined her…”
Her orgasm was a series of sharp, clenching pulses against his tongue. She cursed, grinding down hard before going limp.
The process repeated. He was led from one woman to another, a blind, leashed animal servicing their arousal. Each one narrated her husband’s role in Margot’s degradation.
“Mine was the first in her cunt… she came almost immediately…”
“He took her from behind… stretched her so wide…”
They came on his tongue, on his face, their juices mixing with the sweat under his hood. The conversations swirled around him, the women chatting to each other over his head as he worked.
“Did you see the look on her face when the big one entered?”
“Ugh, I nearly came just watching. The husband must be a limp-dick loser.”
“Total beta. This is all he’s good for now.”
The plug suddenly buzzed again, a low, insistent hum, as he ate out a fifth woman. It spurred him on, his own trapped, impossible need syncing with the mechanical violation. He was a raw nerve of humiliation and base stimulation.
A sixth woman, her scent tart and sharp, guided him not to her pussy, but lower, to her anus. “Here. He fucked your wife’s ass in July last year. She loved it. Clean mine.”
He obeyed, probing the tight, forbidden knot with his tongue until she shuddered and squirted across his forehead.
He lost count. The world shrank to scent, taste, sound, and the relentless, building pressure in his groin, trapped and screaming behind plastic. His jaw ached. His knees were bruised. He was a vessel for their pleasure, a living, breathing symbol of his own irrelevance.
Finally, he was pulled away. The last woman patted his hooded head like a dog. “Good cuck.”
The leash tugged. He was hauled to his feet, legs trembling violently. The blindfold was removed. He stood in a plush, dimly lit bar area, facing a semi-circle of sleek, satisfied women adjusting their clothing. They looked at him with casual indifference, as one might regard a useful appliance.
The latex hostess pressed the button.
The plug erupted inside him, not with a buzz, but a violent, jackhammering oscillation. Rupert screamed, doubling over, as it ruthlessly stimulated a nerve-deep centre of shocking pleasure. It was a cruel, perfect mimicry of an orgasm he could not have, tearing through his abdomen and leaving his trapped cock weeping behind its cage. It went on for ten seconds, twenty, a lifetime of electric torment.
Then it stopped.
He collapsed to the floor, trembling, hollowed out, a string of drool hanging from the mouth-hole of his hood. The women’s laughter was the last thing he heard before the sound of their departing heels faded away, leaving him in a heap on the cool, hard floor, the taste of a dozen strangers branding his soul.