Chapter 39: Centrepiece Installation
A low ripple of laughter followed Julia’s pronouncement. Rupert felt it like a physical blow. Number One. He was a thing, a specimen pinned under the collective gaze of the women who ran the village fête and baked for the church coffee morning.
“Dinner will be served shortly,” Julia announced, her voice cutting through his spiralling thoughts. “But first, the centrepieces need installing.”
At her signal, a mechanical whirring filled the barn. The three spherical cages, each a lattice of polished steel, began to descend on their thick chains. They lowered gracefully, coming to a rest just above the long dining table, hovering at chest-height for the seated women.
“Number One, you’re in the far cage. Number Two, the middle. Number Three, the near one. Now.”
Georgina and another woman, Felicity, stepped forward and unlocked their wrist cuffs. The sudden freedom in his arms was a cruel joke. Where could he go? Paolo, with a shrug of resignation, ducked and crawled through the small, hinged door of his cage. Henry was sobbing quietly, a soft, hopeless sound, as he was firmly guided into his.
Rupert’s legs felt like water. Margot caught his eye. Her expression wasn’t one of pity, but of fierce encouragement, a slight nod that said, Do this. For us. He took a shuddering breath, dropped to his knees, and crawled into the cold, confining sphere. The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that echoed in his bones.
The whirring started again. The cage lifted, swaying gently. The floor of the barn fell away. He was hoisted up until the top of his sphere was a few feet from the vaulted ceiling, suspended directly over the table. He could see everything: the glittering place settings, the crystal glasses, the faces of the women looking up at him. The cage was just large enough to sit in a hunched position, his knees drawn up. The cold metal pressed against his bare skin, and the relentless plug inside him shifted with every slight movement of the cage, a constant, intimate intrusion.
“Comfortable, gentlemen?” Julia called up, her voice laced with dark amusement.
From this vantage point, the humiliation was complete. He was a display, a piece of living art for their dinner party.
“Now,” Julia clapped her hands once. “Service, if you please!”
A door at the far end of the barn opened. Three men entered. They were young, probably in their late twenties, each possessing a sculpted, athletic physique that made Rupert acutely aware of his own softness. They wore minimalist black leather masks that covered the upper halves of their faces, leaving their jaws and mouths exposed. And they wore nothing else but impossibly small black thongs that did little to contain their evident and substantial endowments. They moved with a fluid, silent grace, one collecting a bottle of champagne from a side table, the others beginning to adjust the placement of cutlery with precise, efficient movements.
A wave of something hot and ugly washed over Rupert. It wasn’t just shame. It was a sharp, startling pang of jealousy. These were the real men, he thought absurdly. Unrestrained, powerful, serving the women who had caged him.
“Oh my,” Brenda the baker giggled, her eyes trailing one of the waiters as he leaned over to fill her glass. The man said nothing, just offered a slight, professional smile.
“Don’t mind them, dears,” Julia said to the caged men above. “They’re just here to ensure the ladies are properly attended to. Something you three are in no position to do.”
Henry let out a choked sound from his cage. Paolo, however, let out a low whistle. “Not bad, Dolores!” he called down. “You pick them?”
Dolores laughed throatily. “I have an eye for talent, cariño.”
The casual conversation, the clink of glasses, the presence of the other men—it all conspired to reduce them to objects of pure spectacle. Rupert watched, his face burning, as one of the waiters pulled out a chair for Margot. She sat, her red corset straining as she leaned back, and smiled up at him. Her gaze was warm, but it was the smile of an owner appreciating a peculiar pet.
The waiter poured her champagne, his biceps flexing. He then moved to stand against the wall, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture alert and ready. His eyes, what little could be seen of them, scanned the room, passing over the cages as if they were pieces of furniture.
Rupert closed his eyes, the sway of the cage a nauseating pendulum. He was jealous of a waiter in a thong. He was suspended in a metal ball over a dinner table, plugged and numbered. And the most terrifying part, the thought that coiled hot in his gut beneath all the shame, was that a part of him, a part he never knew existed, was thrillingly, painfully alive.