Chapter 36: Cuckold Carnival
The blindfold was removed with a sudden, efficient snap. Rupert blinked, his eyes stinging as they adjusted to the warm, firelit room. The world resolved into shapes and colors, all filtered through the narrow eyeholes of the tight latex hood. To his left and right, he saw them. Two other men, kneeling in identical postures of submission, their own hooded heads turning slowly, taking in the same shocking tableau.
One was slightly portly, his skin pale and soft-looking. The other was leaner, with a tension in his shoulders that spoke of either fear or excitement. Their shared predicament was a silent, screaming bond.
Then Julia strode into the center of their limited vision. She was a tall woman, impeccably dressed in a silk blouse and tailored trousers, her expression one of cool, amused authority. She looked them over as if assessing livestock.
"Now that all our locked pets are assembled," she began, her voice cutting cleanly through the distant sounds of laughter and clinking glasses from another room, "it's time to give you your instructions. You will listen. You will not speak unless directly asked a question."
Rupert’s heart hammered against his ribs. The warmth from the fire suddenly felt oppressive.
"This is a party," Julia continued, pacing slowly before them. "Our guests are enjoying themselves. Your role is to facilitate that enjoyment. You will follow any and all instructions given to you by a guest. Is that understood?"
A mute, collective nod from the three kneeling figures.
"There will be surprises. There may even be a little friendly competition." A sly smile touched her lips. "To keep things simple, and since your own names are rather irrelevant for the evening, you will be referred to by number."
She produced a thick, black Sharpie from her pocket. She stopped first before the portly man. "You are Number One." She uncapped the marker with a definitive click and, with brisk, impersonal efficiency, wrote a large '1' on his left buttock. The man flinched at the cold, wet touch.
She moved to the leaner man. "You are Number Two." The marker squeaked against his skin as she inscribed the digit.
Then she was in front of Rupert. He held his breath. Her gaze was direct, impersonal. "And you are Number Three." She knelt, her movements graceful and deliberate. The tip of the marker was cold and firm against the warm skin of his backside. He could feel the shape of the number being drawn, a permanent-feeling brand of his new, reduced identity. The chemical scent of the ink filled his nostrils.
Julia stood, recapping the marker. "Good. The rules are simple. Obey. Endure. And perhaps, if you are very, very good, you might even enjoy yourselves."
With a final, sweeping glance, she turned and left the room, closing the door behind her and leaving them alone in the flickering firelight—three numbered men, on their knees, waiting for the party to truly begin.