Chapter 163: The Gym's Humiliation
He stood in the hallway until the creaking stopped. The house settled into a silence more oppressive than the noise. Upstairs, a toilet flushed. Pipes groaned in the walls. Then, soft footsteps descending the carpeted stairs.
Rupert braced himself, his back against the cool wall.
Margot appeared at the foot of the stairs, wrapped in her silk kimono, the one he’d bought her in Japan a lifetime ago. Her red hair was tangled, her cheeks flushed. She smelled of sex—a musky, sweet, undeniable cloud that reached him before she did. And of another man’s sweat.
She walked past him into the kitchen, not meeting his eyes. “You’re back early,” she said, her voice hoarse.
He followed her, the plug in his ass a sealed accusation. “The session was… efficient.”
She filled the kettle, her movements languid, saturated. He watched her lean against the counter, a slight wince crossing her face as she shifted her weight. She was sore. He knew that wince. He’d caused it, once.
“Abby working you hard?” Margot asked, finally looking at him. Her eyes were bright, pupils wide.
“Yes.”
“Good.” She turned, the kimono falling open slightly, revealing a constellation of fresh red marks on her chest. A love bite, brutal and purple, bloomed above her left breast. “You needed the discipline.”
He wanted to scream. To ask who. To ask how many times. To tear the bell from her clit and crush it under his heel. Instead, he said, “The plug she gave me… it’s on a random setting.”
Margot’s lips curved. “Is it?” She stepped closer. The scent of another man’s release wafted from her. “Let’s hear it.”
As if on command, a deep, internal buzz started, a long, sinuous vibration that made his knees soften. He sucked in a breath.
Margot tilted her head, listening. A faint, answering jingle came from under her robe. The tiny bell on her hood. She’d kept it on. She smiled, a real, dark, fulfilled smile. “Synchronicity.” She turned back to her tea. “You should shower. You smell of the gym.”
The gym the next morning was a different kind of torture. Abby stood before him in shimmering black lycra, the material so thin across her chest he could see the dark circles of her areolas, the tight points of her nipples. The suit plunged in a deep V to her navel, and the back was a narrow strap between the full, round globes of her ass. She was barefoot, her toes painted a vicious red.
“Show me,” she said, without greeting.
Hands trembling, Rupert lowered his joggers and briefs. The plastic cage glinted under the fluorescent lights. The plug’s base was visible, a dark silicone star against his skin.
“Good. Assume the position.”
He knew it now. He got onto his hands and knees on the mat, arching his back, presenting himself. Abby crouched behind him. He felt her breath on him, then her fingers, tracing the rim where the plug met his body.
“Slight inflammation,” she noted clinically. “You’ll get used to it. Today, we focus on endurance. Mental and physical.” She stood. “Follow me.”
She led him to the squat rack. “Empty bar. Fifty deep squats. Hold at the bottom. And while you hold, you’ll listen.”
He lifted the bar, the cold steel a familiar weight on his shoulders. He began. Down, until his thighs were parallel to the floor. Hold.
Abby leaned against the rack, watching the strain in his legs. “Your wife had a late one last night,” she said conversationally. “Or an early one, depending on your view. The eleven o’clock slot. A gentleman from the WI calendar committee, if the rumours are true. A widower. Very… devoted.” She paused as he rose, shaking, then descended again. “He likes to take his time, apparently. Enjoys the acoustics. Loves to hear that little bell sing.”
Rupert grunted, the bar shuddering.
“Hold it,” Abby snapped. He froze at the bottom of the squat, his muscles burning. “He’s not a quick, hard fuck like the student. He’s a slow, deep, grinding fuck. The kind that ruins a pussy for anything else for hours afterwards. Margot says she can still feel him this morning. A full, stretched-out ache. A claimed ache.”
Rupert’s vision swam. He pushed up, completing the rep.
“Twenty-three,” Abby counted. “Imagine it. A thick, older cock, pushing into her, inch by inch. Her cunt swallowing him whole, that bell jingling with every thrust. Her legs hooked over his elbows, her heels digging into the small of his back. Him whispering filthy things into her ear about how he’s going to pump her married cunt full of seed, how her husband is probably jerking his little caged dick in the next room, useless.”
Another squat. Hold.
“She comes like that, you know,” Abby whispered, moving close to his ear. “With him buried to the hilt, grinding against her cervix. She screams. Not a polite little gasp. A raw, throat-shredding scream. It echoes through the house. You heard it, didn’t you?”
He had. A choked, sobbing cry of pleasure that had cut through the floorboards last night.
“Forty-nine,” Abby said. “One more. Make it count.”
He sank down, his body screaming.
“And as she’s coming, as she’s clenching around that stranger’s cock, what are you doing?” Abby’s voice was a venomous thread. “You’re lying there. Your dick is a lump of plastic. Your ass is stuffed with a piece of silicone. You’re nothing but a set of ears listening to your wife get fucked into oblivion.”
He roared, a strangled, helpless sound, and shoved the bar up with the last of his strength. He dropped it with a clang that echoed through the empty gym.
He collapsed onto his back, chest heaving, the world a blur of white lights and pain.
Abby loomed over him. “Good.” She tossed a towel at his face. “Now, hip thrusts. Let’s really engage that glute-hamstring tie-in. And let’s get that plug working.”
She took the remote from her pocket. A powerful, sustained vibration erupted inside him, a violent thrumming that seemed to rattle his teeth. He cried out.
“Forty reps,” she said. “Now. And listen closely.”
As he began, hips pistoning up, the plug buzzing relentlessly, Abby described the scene in forensic, filthy detail. The widower’s wrinkled hands gripping Margot’s hips, his grey-haired chest pressed against her back if he took her doggy-style. The sound of their skin slapping together, a wet, meaty rhythm. The feel of his cock, thick and veiny and relentless, stretching her. The taste of him in her mouth if she’d sucked him first.
“She swallows,” Abby said, watching Rupert’s face contort. “Every drop. She says it’s part of the service. A courtesy to the bulls. To look them in the eye as their cum slides down her throat.”
Rupert’s thrusts became frantic, ragged. He was chasing a release that the cage made impossible, a summit he could never reach. The vibration merged with the fire in his muscles and the acid in his heart.
“Thirty-eight… thirty-nine… and forty.” Abby clicked the remote. The plug fell silent. The sudden absence was a shock. He fell back, spent, drenched in sweat and shame.
She knelt beside him, her face close. Her lycra-clad nipple brushed his arm. “You’re making progress, Slave Blue. Your jealousy is becoming a pure, clean fuel. It’s almost beautiful.” She stood, looking down at him with something like pity. “Get up. Shower. Your wife has a full day. So does her cunt.”
He dressed in a fog. As he was leaving, Abby called out from the reception desk. She was tapping the framed calendar on the wall.
“July,” she said, pointing.
The page showed a sun-drenched meadow. The nude figure was Margot, smiling over her shoulder, her red hair a splash of colour. And across the week of the 15th, instead of the usual single black star, were seven of them. A solid line of stars.
“A week,” Abby said softly. “A special event. A marathon.” She smiled. “Something for you to really focus on while you’re locked in that cage.”
The walk home was a nightmare. Every jolt of his step sent a reminder from the silent plug. Every ordinary sight—a woman pushing a pram, a postman on his rounds—became a potential bull, a man who might have been inside his wife. The July calendar burned behind his eyes. Seven days. Seven stars.
He let himself into a silent house. A different scent hung in the air today: bleach, lemon polish. She’d cleaned. Erased the evidence.
On the kitchen table, next to his usual lunch plate, was a small, gift-wrapped box. A card leaned against it, in Margot’s handwriting.
For enduring. A little motivation for July. Wear it after your showers. X
With numb fingers, he tore the paper. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a new butt plug. Slightly larger. Made of sleek, polished steel. And at its base, where the flared disc would sit against his skin, was a delicate, engraved design: a tiny, perfect bell.