Chapter 162: The Gym's Secret
The winter light through the gym’s high windows was a pale, unforgiving bleach. It caught the dust motes swirling in the air above the mats, each particle a tiny, agitated world. Rupert stood shivering, dressed only in his trainers and the plastic cage. The cold bit at his nipples, raised gooseflesh on his thighs. The gym smelled of lavender soap—Margot’s batch, he realized—overlaid on the deeper, older stench of sweat and rubber.
Abby stood before him, and the sight was a physical blow.
Her outfit was less clothing than a second skin, a liquid sheen of purple lycra that poured over her form with obscene fidelity. It was a one-piece, sleeveless, cut high at the thighs. There were no panties—the material over her mons was a smooth, taut panel, the shadow of her cleft visibly pressing against the fabric. The back was a built-in thong, a narrow strip that vanished between her pronounced, muscular buttocks, each cheek sharply defined and utterly exposed. Her abdomen, a rippled map of hard-earned muscle, was bare and oiled, catching the light. She looked like a weapon.
“You’re late by thirty seconds,” she said, her voice cool. She didn’t smile. “That’s thirty squat jumps. Now.”
He began, the movement jarring, his caged genitals bouncing painfully. She watched, arms crossed, her eyes on the straining plastic.
“Forty-seven… forty-eight… Think about why you’re here,” she said, her tone conversational. “While you’re hopping, your wife is probably still feeling the ache. That young man had quite a grip, according to Margot. Said he came so hard he saw stars. Imagine that. A boy, maybe half your age, painting her insides with his seed while you’re here, jumping.”
He faltered, his breath ragged.
“Don’t you dare stop,” she snapped. “Fifty-nine… sixty. Good. On your back.”
He collapsed onto the mat, his chest heaving. She approached, her sculpted calves brushing his shoulder as she stood over his head. From this angle, the lycra-clad delta of her sex was directly above his face, a detailed, intimidating topography.
“Legs in the air, bicycle crunches. Engage the transverse abdominis. Imagine you’re pedaling away from the humiliation. It won’t work, but try.”
He lifted his legs, began the motions. His core screamed in protest.
She knelt beside him, her hand pressing hard into his trembling lower belly. Her touch was clinical, possessive. “Deeper,” she commanded. Her face was close to his. “She’s likely having her second cup of tea right now. The ten o’clock appointment. A regular, this one. A married fellow from the next village. She says he’s thick as a tin of corned beef and lasts for hours. Can you imagine? Hours of him rutting into her, pounding that gorgeous pussy you haven’t touched in months. The bell on her little hood jingling like a cheap toy.”
He whimpered, his legs faltering.
“I didn’t say stop.” Her hand slid down, her fingertips tracing the edge of the plastic cage, a mockery of a caress. His trapped flesh throbbed, a dull, impossible pulse. “Feel that? That’s your purpose now. A frustrated, useless ache. It’s your fuel.”
For an hour, she orchestrated his torment. Planks where she placed small weights on the small of his back. Glute bridges where she made him hold at the peak, then whispered, “This is the position she’ll be in for her third tonight, I expect. On her back, ankles hooked over some stranger’s shoulders, taking him so deep her eyes roll back.” Lunges across the length of the gym, her voice following him. “Run from it, Slave Blue. You can’t.”
Finally, sweat-slick and shaking, he lay spent on the mat. Every muscle fiber was a lit fuse of agony. Abby walked to a small cabinet and returned with a box. She opened it, pulling out a silicone butt plug, its base flared, a small wireless remote beside it.
“Today’s final piece,” she said, businesslike. “Part of your core stability work. Pelvic floor engagement. And motivation.” She held up the remote, pressing a button. The plug buzzed softly in her hand. “Random pulse setting. It’ll keep you… focused.”
She squirted a generous amount of lubricant onto the plug. “On your knees, elbows on the mat. Arch your back. Present.”
The command was so cold, so direct, that he complied without thought. He assumed the position, his face pressed to the rubber mat, his ass raised in the air. The shame was a live wire in his throat.
He heard the slick sound of her coating the plug. Then her other hand was on his buttock, spreading him. The cold touch of the silicone tip pressed against his entrance.
“Breathe out,” she said, and pushed.
There was a sharp, invasive pressure, then a burning stretch as the widest part slid past his resisting muscle. He gasped, his fingers clawing at the mat. It seated itself with a soft pop, the flared base snug against him. The sensation was overwhelmingly full, a violation that was also, horribly, an intimacy.
She pressed the remote again. A deep, sudden vibration started inside him, a throbbing pulse that made his legs quiver. Then it stopped. A moment of silence, then another buzz, shorter this time.
“Stand up,” Abby said.
He got to his feet, feeling the foreign object lodged inside him with every micro-movement.
“Good. Now, you’ll wear this for the walk home. And you’ll wear it to every session with me from now on. Consider it part of your uniform.” She picked up his clothes and handed them to him. “Get dressed. The vibration is on a random timer. It could go off in two minutes or twenty. You’ll never know. It’ll keep your mind where it belongs: on your wife’s holes, and the fact that none of them are for you.”
He dressed clumsily, the fabric of his joggers pressing the plug’s base against him with every step. As he pulled on his coat, a strong, prolonged pulse made him jerk, a stifled groan escaping his lips.
Abby smiled for the first time, a sharp, knowing thing. “There it is. Motivation.” She walked to the door and opened it, the cold air rushing in. “See you tomorrow, Slave Blue. Seven sharp. Don’t be late. And don’t you dare take it out. Margot will know if you do.”
He stumbled out into the stark daylight. The village high street was quiet, a few early shoppers moving between parked cars. With each step, the plug shifted, a constant, maddening reminder. He passed the butcher’s, the post office, the newsagent. A normal Tuesday morning.
Then, halfway home, it vibrated again—a series of short, insistent bursts that made him falter mid-step. He leaned against a stone wall, pretending to tie his shoe, his cheeks burning as the device hummed inside him. He saw a man walking a dog, a woman with a pushchair. Did they know? Could they see the secret he carried, the electric shame buzzing in his guts?
He thought of Margot. Was she on her back now, knees splayed, taking the corned-beef-thick cock of a married man from the next village? Was her head thrown back, her red hair splayed on the pillow, that fucking bell on her clit jingling like a manic metronome? The plug vibrated once more, a low, steady thrum that seemed to mock the very beat of his heart.
He reached his front gate. The house looked peaceful, curtains drawn in their bedroom window. Silent. He fumbled with the key, his hand shaking. As he turned it in the lock, another pulse, longer and stronger, ripped through him, forcing a sharp breath through his clenched teeth.
He stepped into the hallway, the warmth of the house enveloping him. The air held a new scent—coffee, and underneath it, something muskier, salty, unmistakable. From upstairs, he heard the low, rhythmic groan of their bedframe, a slow, relentless creak-creak-creak.
He stood frozen in the hallway, his coat dripping meltwater onto the tiles. The vibrating plug inside him fell silent. The only sound now was the deliberate, passionate noise from above, a heavy, grunting breath joining the wooden complaint of the bed, followed by Margot’s voice, clear and throaty, dripping with pleasure: “Yes… right there… god, you fill me up so good…”
Rupert closed his eyes, the image vivid, brutal, complete. He did not go upstairs. He did not call out. He simply stood, a statue in his own hallway, listening to the sound of his wife being fucked, the phantom buzz in his ass a cruel echo of a pleasure he would never again give her.