Chapter 37: The Games Begin
The silence in the firelit room was thick, broken only by the crackle of the logs and the distant, muffled merriment from the party. Rupert’s knees ached against the hard floor, the sharpie number on his cheek a constant, itchy reminder of his new identity. Then the door opened again.
The woman who entered was not Julia. This one was older, perhaps in her late sixties, but she moved with a disconcerting, swaying confidence. She was poured into a garment of glossy black PVC that crinkled with every step, a babydoll that ended high on her thighs, which were sheathed in knee-high boots of the same material. Her silver hair was cut in a sharp, modern bob, and her eyes, lined with experience, swept over the three kneeling men with open appraisal.
“Well, now,” she said, her voice a familiar, husky tremor that Rupert had last heard reading the second lesson in church. It was Georgina. She held up two small velvet bags, one in each hand. “I’m here to bring you to the party. But first, a little competition. Don’t want any of you left behind, do we?” She chuckled, a low, knowing sound.
Rupert’s mind reeled. This was Georgina, who organized the church flower roster and always had a kind word about his marrows at the village fete. The cognitive dissonance made his head spin.
“In this bag,” she wiggled the one in her left hand, “are three tickets, numbered one, two, and three. In this one,” she shook the right, “are your… accessories. You’ll pick a number, and you’ll get the corresponding plug. Simple, yes? Number One, you’re first. Choose.”
The portly man—Henry—shuffled forward on his knees. His hand trembled as he reached into the left bag and pulled out a folded slip of paper. He opened it. “Two,” he whispered.
“Number Two it is,” Georgina said brightly, reaching into the other bag. She pulled out a silicone plug. It was substantial, with a flared base and a gradual, intimidating taper. Henry’s eyes widened.
“Number Two, your turn.”
The leaner man—Paolo—moved with more grace. He reached in and retrieved his ticket. “Three,” he announced, a hint of a challenge in his voice.
From the bag, Georgina produced another plug. This one was different; slimmer, but made of a gleaming, dark metal that caught the firelight. A single, polished jewel was set into its base.
Now it was Rupert’s turn. His mouth was dry. He lurched forward, the movement awkward, and dipped his fingers into the bag. The last remaining ticket felt flimsy, inconsequential. He unfolded it.
“One,” he said, his voice cracking.
“Lucky last,” Georgina smiled. From the depths of the second bag, she produced the final plug. It was the largest of the three, a daunting shape in black silicone, its size and pronounced curve making the other two look almost tame. Rupert felt a cold sweat break out on the small of his back.
“On all fours, all of you. Heads down. Let’s not be shy.”
They assumed the position, a line of bent backs and upturned rears, the sharpie numbers on display. Rupert heard the click of a cap, the wet sound of lubricant being squeezed onto a palm. He squeezed his eyes shut behind the latex hood.
He heard Henry gasp first, a sharp, stifled intake of breath followed by a low groan as Georgina worked the large silicone plug into place. Then it was Paolo’s turn; there was a soft, metallic click as the jeweled base settled against his skin, and he let out a slow, controlled sigh.
Then her shadow fell over Rupert. He felt the cold, slick gel against his most private pucker, and he flinched violently.
“Easy now, Number Three,” Georgina murmured, her voice close to his ear. Her other hand rested firmly on the small of his back, holding him in place. “Relax. It’s just a little fullness.”
The pressure was immense, alien. He gritted his teeth, his knuckles white on the rug. She was slow, methodical, working the thick, curved silicone into him with a practiced patience that was both clinical and intensely intimate. He felt a burn, a stretching sensation that seemed to go on forever, and then a sudden, shocking pop as the widest part slipped past his resistance. The plug settled deep inside him, a foreign, unignorable presence that filled him completely. He panted, dizzy, the feeling utterly bizarre and overwhelming.
“There now,” she said, patting his flank. “All done.”
Before he could process the strange fullness, a soft black blindfold was tied over his hood’s eyeholes, plunging him into absolute darkness. His other senses screamed to life. He could smell the PVC of her boots, the faint scent of lavender on her hands, the acrid tang of his own sweat.
“Hands on the shoulders of the man in front of you,” Georgina commanded. “Form a chain. Don’t let go.”
Rupert fumbled in the dark, his hands finding Paolo’s firm, slick shoulders. In front, Paolo gripped Henry. They were connected, a blind, stumbling train of shared humiliation and anticipation.
“Excellent,” Georgina said. Her hand, cool and firm, took Rupert’s free hand and placed it on her own hip. The crinkling PVC was smooth and unyielding under his palm. “Now, follow my lead. Step carefully. Your party awaits.”
She began to walk, pulling him forward. He stumbled, the plug shifting inside him with a jolt that made him gasp. Behind him, he heard the others stumble too, a chain reaction of uncertainty. He was blind, he was full, he was being led by the church coordinator into the unknown, one trembling step at a time.