Chapter 35: Arriving at the Party
The thick terrycloth robe was a small mercy, though its warmth did little to penetrate the cold knot of anxiety in his stomach. He was painfully aware of his nakedness beneath it, the chastity device a constant, foreign pressure. The car ride was a study in sensory deprivation. The latex hood muffled the world, and the blindfold Margot had tied securely over his eyes plunged him into absolute blackness.
He heard the crunch of gravel under tires, the sigh of the car door opening, and then her hand was on his arm. "Easy now," Margot murmured, her voice the only familiar point in the darkness. "Step up. There's a threshold."
He was led through a space that felt different from the barn—the air was warmer, scented with beeswax and old wood. A floorboard creaked underfoot. Then, the texture changed to something deep and soft beneath his bare knees. A carpet.
"Kneel here," she instructed, her voice low and firm. He obeyed, the plush pile a small comfort. He heard the rustle of leather as she moved behind him. His cuffs were pulled back, and he felt a new strap, rough and unyielding, being fastened from the D-ring on his collar down to the cuffs on his wrists, pulling his shoulders back into a slight, constant arch. He was trussed, anchored in place.
"Good boy," she whispered, her breath warm against the latex of his ear. "The party will start soon. Just wait."
Then, her footsteps receded. A door clicked shut.
Silence.
Well, not true silence. There was the distinct, comforting crackle and pop of a fire in a hearth nearby. He could feel its heat on the right side of his body, a welcome counterpoint to the chill of his own apprehension. The carpet was indeed very soft. He focused on that, on the sound of the fire, on the rhythm of his own breathing, loud and hollow inside the mask.
Time stretched and warped. He heard a door open and close elsewhere in the house, followed by the distant murmur of voices—women's voices, light and laughing. His heart thudded against his ribs. Once, someone entered the room. He heard the soft swish of fabric, a quiet, considering hum, and then the person left without saying a word. The anonymity was its own peculiar torture. He was an object, being inspected.
He was left there, kneeling in the dark, the fire warming his skin, the strap keeping him proudly, helplessly on display. The wait was its own form of discipline. Every nerve ending was awake, straining for a clue, for a touch, for anything.