Chapter 168: Leaving Present
The darkness behind the hood was absolute. Rupert heard the rustle of Julia’s clothes as she stood, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet. His limbs felt like dead things, his mind a scrambled mess of images: the curve of that cock, the jingle of the bell, the dripping proof left on the bench.
“Stand up, Slave Blue.”
Her voice wasn’t gentle. It was a command, crisp and expectant. He fumbled, pushing himself up from the chair, his legs trembling. The plastic cage felt heavier, a gross, permanent fixture.
“Follow my voice.”
She led him, a hand on his shoulder, out of the ante-room and back into the main dungeon. The air hit him first—warm, humid, thick with a cocktail of smells. Sweet lavender disinfectant undercut by the pungent, salty tang of sweat, and beneath it all, the unmistakable, metallic scent of sex. It was the smell of what had just been done to his wife. It coated the back of his throat.
The hood’s limited vision showed him blurred patches of the room as she guided him: the dark stain of the padded bench, the glint of shackles hanging open.
“On all fours. On the bench. This is your leaving gift. Your maintenance.”
He hesitated. The leather was still warm. Damp in places.
“Now.”
He crawled onto it, the position shamefully familiar from a thousand glances through the mirror. His knees settled where Margot’s had been. His hands pressed into the indentations left by her grip.
He heard her moving behind him, the click of a case opening, the slick sound of a bottle. Cold air touched his lower back as she pushed his shirt up. Then her hands, sheathed in what felt like rubber, touched the base of the plug buried in his ass. With a clinical, unceremonious tug, she removed it. The sensation of sudden, empty vulnerability was profound.
“You’ve been holding your wife’s secrets all afternoon,” Julia said conversationally. Her voice was closer now, right behind him. “Holding your own. Time to empty you out. A clean slate.”
Something much larger and more fluid than the plug nudged against him. Lubricant, cold and excessive, dripped down his perineum. He flinched.
“Stay still.”
It wasn’t a toy. It was her hand. She worked three thick, rubber-clad fingers into him without preamble, stretching him open with a steady, relentless pressure. He gasped, a short, sharp intake of breath.
“There we go,” she murmured, her voice a study in detached focus. She twisted her wrist, the textured rubber dragging roughly over his sensitive inner walls. She was searching. When she found it, his whole body jerked. A bright, shocking bolt of sensation, utterly different from pain, erupted from his prostate.
“Ah! F-fuck—”
“Language, Blue,” she chided, but he could hear the smirk. She pressed the pad of her finger firmly against the small, swollen gland and began to massage it in slow, deliberate circles.
The effect was immediate and catastrophic. Arousal, denied and dammed up for weeks, came flooding through him, a hot tide that had no outlet. His caged cock strained uselessly, aching, weeping a thin fluid that spotted the inside of the plastic. A moan was torn from him, involuntary and desperate.
“This is all you get,” she whispered, her other hand pressing down on the small of his back, holding him in place. “This is your sex now. Being milked. Like an animal. Emptying out while you think about your wife getting filled up.”
Her finger worked him harder, the rhythm becoming quicker, more insistent. The stimulation was unbearably direct. It wasn’t pleasure, not exactly. It was a forced, physiological hijacking. His hips began to stutter, pushing back against her hand helplessly.
“That’s it. Let it go. All that useless fucking desire. It doesn’t belong to you anymore.”
A pressure built, deep in his groin, but it was all wrong. There was no climax waiting, just a deep, shuddering release. His abdomen clenched violently. A jet of clear, viscous fluid shot from his trapped cock, spattering noisily against the inside of the chastity device. Another spasm, and another, until he was panting, empty, a profound and unsettling hollow-ness replacing the tension.
She withdrew her hand slowly. He slumped forward, forehead against the warm leather, spent and shaking.
“Good boy.”
A metallic clatter sounded beside his head. A small, black enamel plate was placed on the bench in front of him from out of his vague viewing.
“Now,” Julia said, her voice clean and sharp as a scalpel. “Show your appreciation. Lick it clean.”
He lifted his head. On the plate was a small, opalescent puddle of his own prostatic fluid, mixed with lubricant. The smell of latex and his own salt filled his nostrils.
Humiliation, hot and final, washed over him. This was the bottom. This was the price of watching.
His tongue, dry and thick, moved from his mouth. He extended it and dragged it across the cool, smooth surface of the plate. The taste was bitter, musky, profoundly intimate and degrading. He cleaned it meticulously, every drop, until the black enamel shone under the lights.
When he finished, he remained there, on all fours, tasting himself, breathing in the scent of the dungeon.
Julia’s hand patted his hooded head, twice, like he was a dog.
“Your wife is sleeping in the recovery room. Abby is seeing to her. You’ll go home alone. Remember this emptiness, Blue. Remember the taste. In July, while she’s being refilled every day, you’ll have this. You’ll have the memory of this. And you’ll love it.”
She unclipped the hood’s strap at the back. The world expanded as she pulled the blue leather away from his head. The light was painfully bright. He blinked, his eyes wet.
“Get up. Get dressed. Your car is out front.”
He moved numbly, pulling his clothes on over his sticky, violated body. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at the bench. He walked out of the cottage, into the bland, innocent evening air, the taste of his own submission still coating his tongue. The weight of the empty house awaited him. The calendar on the kitchen wall, with its week of black stars, was now a countdown to a marathon of this hollow, furious longing.