Chapter 164: Send off Party
The polished steel of the new plug was cold against his skin, a permanent, weighted reminder. He wore it now, as instructed, after every shower. The tiny engraved bell didn’t ring, but he felt its symbolic chime with every movement, a silent scream in his head.
A text from Abby came not to the gym, but to a different address. The Old Thatched Cottage, Oak Lane. 10 AM. Ask for Julia. Be hooded. The message was brusque, final.
He arrived at the honey-stone cottage with its sagging mossy roof, the plaque by the vine-carved door reading simply J. Hargreaves. He pulled the blue leather hood from his pocket, his fingers clumsy. The world narrowed to the eyeholes and the mesh over his mouth as he pulled it on. His breathing became loud in his own ears. He knocked.
The door opened. A woman of about sixty, with severe grey hair cut in a sharp bob and eyes the colour of flint, surveyed him. She wore a crisp linen shirt and tailored trousers. She looked like a librarian, or a retired headmistress.
“Slave Blue. I am Julia. Enter.” Her voice was calm, low, with the clipped efficiency of someone used to being obeyed.
He stepped into a foyer that smelled of beeswax and dried lavender. It was impeccably tidy, shelves lined with antique bric-a-brac. It felt utterly normal. Wrongly so.
“Through there.” She gestured to a plain oak door. “Strip completely. Fold your clothes on the bench. Then proceed through the inner door and sit in the chair. Secure the straps. I will be along shortly.”
The first room was a small, plain ante-chamber, dimly lit. A wooden bench. He did as he was told, the air cool on his naked, caged body. The steel plug felt alien. The inner door was heavy, black. He opened it.
The space beyond was not what he expected. It was another room, windowless, painted a soft grey. In the centre stood a heavy, padded chair, like something from a dentist’s office, but with thick leather straps at the wrists, ankles, and across the chest. It faced a vast, floor-to-ceiling mirror that took up the entire far wall. The mirror was dark, reflecting only the room and his own hooded, vulnerable form.
He sat. The leather was cool. He fastened the straps, one after another, the buckles clicking with dreadful finality. He was immobilized, facing his own anonymous reflection.
The lights in his room dimmed to near darkness. A soft hum filled the air. Then, the mirror before him seemed to dissolve.
It became a window.
He was looking into another, larger room—a dungeon. The walls were lined with dark wood racks holding an array of implements: floggers, canes, strange silicone shapes, gleaming metal devices. In the centre was a sturdy, leather-padded table. A medical trolley stood beside it, holding bottles, tubing, and a large, professional-grade syringe.
Two figures entered the main dungeon.
One was Abby. But not the Abby from the gym. This Abby wore a sheath of glossy black latex that covered her from throat to crotch, a second skin that shone under the bright lights. It was a one-piece, plunging at the back into a stark thong that split the full curves of her ass. Her hair was pulled back severely. She carried a coiled latex hose.
The other figure was a woman, naked, her body lush and familiar. Margot. A sleek black leather hood covered her entire head, only her mouth and eyes visible, her vibrant red hair entirely concealed. A gold ring pierced her clitoral hood, the tiny bell hanging from it silent. She moved with a quiet submission, her head bowed slightly.
Rupert’s breath hitched. The mesh of his hood filtered the sound into a ragged gasp.
“Please the Mistress,” hooded-Margot said, her voice slightly muffled by the leather.
“Kneel,” Abby commanded.
Margot knelt on the padded leather bench before the table, her back to the mirror—to Rupert. Abby paced behind her, a hand trailing possessively over the swell of her buttock.
“Our guest needs awakening.” Abby’s voice was different—cooler, amused, utterly in control. “She’s been a touch lazy lately. We’ll start with the basics. Present.”
Margot bent forward, resting her upper body on the table, her ass raised high. Abby picked up a large, bulbous silicone vibrator from the trolley. She slicked it with clear gel from a bottle.
“Deep cleans are so important,” Abby said conversationally, as if lecturing. She pressed the tip against Margot’s anus. Margot flinched, then relaxed, pushing back. Abby worked it in slowly, relentlessly, until the entire length, a good eight inches, was buried. A faint, satisfied sigh came from Margot.
Abby turned it on. A deep, thunderous buzz filled the dungeon, audible through the glass. Rupert could see the faint tremor in the muscles of Margot’s thighs. Abby left it there, humming.
She then took a heavier, longer vibrator, this one shaped like a thick, veined cock. She poured more gel over it. Without ceremony, she pressed it into Margot’s pussy from behind, fucking it into her in one smooth, brutal stroke. Margot cried out, a sound of intense sensation, her back arching.
“Two anchors,” Abby said clinically. “Now, we stimulate.”
She reached between Margot’s legs, her fingers finding the gold-ringed clit. She began to rub in tight, fast circles. On the table, Margot began to shake. The two vibrators inside her, the relentless hand on her clit—it was a brutal overload.
“Come for me, pet,” Abby whispered.
Margot’s body seized. A raw, guttural moan tore from her hooded mouth. Her hips jerked against Abby’s hand, her cunt clenching around the silicone cock, her ass gripping the other intruder. The bell on her clit jingled frantically, a wild, chaotic dance of sound. Rupert watched, transfixed, horrified, unbearably aroused. The steel plug in his own ass felt like a cruel mockery.
The orgasm seemed endless. When it ebbed, Margot slumped onto the table, breathing hard.
Abby didn’t let her rest. She removed the toys with two wet, slick sounds. “Enema time. High capacity. We need to flush out all that nervous energy.”
What followed was a methodical, almost tender humiliation. Abby fitted the nozzle to the latex hose, connected it to a large bag of clear fluid hung from a stand. She soothed Margot with a hand on her back as she inserted the nozzle and opened the valve. Rupert watched, his stomach clenching, as Margot’s belly began to subtly distend under the slow, relentless influx. Margot groaned, a sound of deep, uncomfortable fullness.
“Hold it, pet. Every drop.”
For five agonizing minutes, Abby made her hold it, stroking her hair, whispering praise for her obedience. Finally, she led her, moving with a pregnant slowness, to a stainless-steel toilet bowl in the corner. The release was audible, a prolonged, rushing cascade that made Rupert’s face burn under the hood. He was staring into a privacy that was no longer private, a intimacy that was now a public display for him alone.
Through it all, it was the casual, good-humoured tone that gutted him. Abby’s soft laughs, Margot’s muffled, grateful “Thank you, Mistress” after each violation. This wasn’t a scene of grim punishment; it was a game they were both enjoying, a game from which he was permanently excluded, yet forced to witness.
After cleaning up, Abby had Margot lie back on the table, her legs spread wide in padded cuffs. She attached a powerful, wanded vibrator to the hood’s bell, so that every tremor made it jingle. She turned it to a high setting.
“Another. Give me three more before we finish,” Abby said, leaning against the trolley, watching dispassionately.
Margot’s body bowed off the table, her screams choked by the hood as forced orgasms were ripped from her, one after another, the bell singing a manic, pathetic tune.
Rupert was crying. He could feel the hot tears soaking the inside of his hood. He strained against the straps, not to escape, but to get closer, to be part of the scene that was destroying him.
Abby finally took pity. She removed the wand, un-cuffed Margot, and helped her to her feet, holding her steady as she trembled. She kissed the forehead of Margot’s hood. “Good girl. You did so well.”
She led Margot to the door of the dungeon. They left.
The lights in the main dungeon went out.
A moment later, the mirror became a mirror again, reflecting only Rupert, strapped and weeping in the dark chair.
A click. The door to his ante-room opened. Light spilled in.
Julia stood there, unchanged, crisp and composed. She looked at him, a clinical assessment. “Session concluded... for now...”