Chapter 167: The Preview Continues
The heavy silence after the bulls left was worse than the noise. It pressed against Rupert’s eardrums, filled only with the ragged echo of Margot’s sobs from the dungeon and the pathetic, tinny rattle of his own breathing inside the blue hood.
Through the two-way mirror, he watched Abby unshackle Margot’s ankles from the posts. His wife’s body looked broken, glistening with sweat and other fluids, trembling as she was hauled upright. She could barely stand; the chain between her ankle cuffs clinked softly with her shudders.
“Clean-up first, Slut,” Abby said, her voice devoid of its earlier theatricality, now just efficient and cold. “You’re filthy.”
Julia’s hand, which had been resting possessively on Rupert’s thigh, withdrew. Her footsteps echoed on the hardwood as she moved around the ante-room. He heard the clink of glass, the pour of liquid.
“For you, Slave Blue,” she said, her voice close to his hooded ear. A straw was pressed to the mouth slit. He drank greedily; cold water, tasting faintly of lemon. It did nothing to cleanse the taste of copper and shame from his mouth.
On the other side of the glass, Abby led Margot to a corner where a stainless steel shower apparatus stood, its hose coiled like a snake. She sprayed Margot down, the water sluicing the evidence of the three men from her thighs and stomach. Margot stood passively, head bowed, the black velvet blindfold now a sodden, dark rag.
Then Abby produced a bottle of clear lubricant and a thick, black rubber nozzle attached to a length of hose. “Bend over. Hands on the bench.”
Rupert’s stomach clenched. He knew what was coming. The enema. Part of the “preparation” Julia had once mentioned casually over tea, a detail that had seemed abstract until now.
Margot obeyed, presenting herself. Abby worked the nozzle into her ass with a clinical detachment. Margot gasped, her back arching. A switch was flipped, and a pump hummed. Margot’s belly began to distend slightly. She whimpered, the sound trapped by the leather hood.
“She needs to be spotless for the main event,” Julia murmured, resuming her seat beside Rupert. Her scent, beeswax and lavender, was a surreal contrast to the visuals. “Can’t have any… mess. This is about purity, in a way. The pure, unadulterated filth of it.”
After an agonizing minute, Abby withdrew the nozzle. Margot was led, hobbling and bloated, to a secluded toilet area obscured by a velvet curtain. They returned moments later, Margot looking hollowed out, vulnerable in a new way.
“Now,” Julia said into the microphone. “The preview continues. The backstage pass.”
A different bull entered the dungeon. Same anonymous black hood, same powerful build. But his cock was different—thicker at the base, a pronounced curve. He didn’t wait for instruction. He walked straight to the padded bench where Margot was being guided back onto her hands and knees.
“Look at that ass, Slave Blue,” Julia’s voice was a heated whisper in Rupert’s ear. Her hand returned to his groin, palming the hard, plastic cage through his trousers. A bolt of frustrated, electric sensation shot through him. “All cleaned out. Empty. Just a hungry, pink little hole waiting to be stuffed. Your wife’s ass. Think about that. You’ve never even touched it, have you?”
He hadn’t. Margot had always been shy about it. He’d respected that.
The bull knelt behind her. He took a handful of lube from a tub Abby offered and slathered it over his cock, then worked a generous amount over Margot’s exposed rear entrance with rough, deliberate fingers. She flinched but pushed back against him, a wanton little grind that made Rupert’s heart stutter.
“She’s begging for it,” Julia sneered. “Look at that. She’s fucking his fingers.”
The bull positioned the broad, curved head of his cock against her. He applied pressure. Margot’s body went taut, a muffled cry escaping her.
He pushed.
It was a slow, relentless invasion. Rupert watched, mesmerized and horrified, as the thick, glistening shaft disappeared into the tight, resisting ring of muscle. Margot’s scream was high, strained, tearing through the speakers. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the bench. The bell on her clit hood jingled in a frantic, panicked rhythm.
“Oh, that’s a tight fit,” Julia cooed, her fingers tracing the outline of Rupert’s cage, pressing cruelly on the trapped flesh beneath. “He’s splitting her open. Rewriting her. That ass belongs to him now. To all of them. July will be a fucking assembly line. One after another. She’ll walk funny for a month.”
The bull seated himself fully, a deep, grunting sigh leaving his hood. He stayed there, buried, letting her adjust. Then he pulled back almost all the way, until just the tip remained, and slammed home again.
Margot shrieked.
He set a pace, brutal and focused, each thrust a deliberate conquest. The sound was different now—a wet, solid slap of flesh on flesh. No squelch, just impact. Her body jolted forward with every drive. The bell became a demented metronome.
“She’s taking it like a champion,” Abby commented, watching dispassionately from a stool. “A real little anal whore.”
“You hear that, Blue?” Julia whispered. “Your champion. Your anal whore.”
Rupert was drowning. The physical arousal was a white-hot wire fused to his spine, forced into a dead end by the plastic prison. The jealousy was a cold, sick stone in his gut. And beneath it all, a terrifying, voyeuristic fascination held his eyes wide open. He watched the bull’s heavy balls slap against her, watched the powerful muscles of his ass clench and drive. He watched his wife’s body, the wife who made scones for the village fete, being brutally fucked in the ass by a stranger.
The bull’s rhythm became erratic, harder, faster. He gripped her hips hard enough to bruise.
“He’s gonna come,” Abby said. “Going to paint her insides. Mark his territory.”
With a final, guttural roar, the bull slammed deep and held, his body shuddering. Rupert could see the intense pulse at the base of his cock. He was filling her.
The bull stayed locked inside her for a long minute, panting, before pulling out. A trickle of white followed, dripping onto the bench. Margot collapsed forward, her face pressed into the padding, her shoulders heaving.
Julia’s hand tightened on Rupert’s caged cock, a vice of promised agony. “That,” she said, her voice flat and final, “was the warm-up. A single hole. A single bull. Imagine seven days, Slave Blue. Imagine her waking up each morning, sore and used, and knowing another one, maybe two, maybe three, are waiting for her. That’s your gift. That’s her vacation.”
On the other side of the glass, Abby tossed a towel to the bull. He cleaned himself off, gave Margot’s ravaged rear a final, proprietary slap that echoed, and left without a word.
The mirror went dark.
In the utter blackness of the ante-room, Julia unstrapped Rupert’s wrists. His arms fell leaden to his sides. She stood, her silhouette just visible.
“The preview is over,” she said.