Chapter 40: Dinner is Served
The clatter of cutlery and the low hum of conversation rose to meet the three caged men. The scent of roasted chicken and herbs, which would have been mouthwatering under any other circumstance, now felt like a taunt. Rupert’s stomach growled, a hollow, ignored sound.
“So, Brenda,” Agnes said, daintily slicing a piece of asparagus. “That new baker’s boy you’ve taken on. The one with the forearms. Does he knead your dough as well as he kneads the bread?”
Brenda blushed a deep crimson, giggling into her napkin. “Agnes! He’s twenty-two.”
“Precisely,” Agnes retorted, her eyes twinkling. “All that youthful stamina. I remember it fondly. Unlike some of our current views.” She didn’t look up, but the implication hung in the air, as tangible as the cages themselves.
From his perch, Rupert watched the interactions below. He saw Felicity, the farmer, engaged in a quiet, intense conversation with one of the masked waiters as he refilled her wine. She reached out, almost absently, and ran a finger over the taut muscle of his thigh. The waiter didn’t flinch, merely inclined his head before moving on.
“He’s very well-trained,” Felicity remarked to the table, her voice carrying a note of professional appraisal. “Like one of my prize stallions. All that controlled power.”
“Oh, I don’t know about controlled,” Henrietta laughed, her bosom heaving. “I think it’s all just barely contained. Isn’t that right, handsome?” This was directed at the waiter standing behind her chair. He offered a slow, deliberate smile that didn’t reach his masked eyes.
Rupert felt a fresh wave of heat flood his face. This was worse than any direct torment. They were discussing these men, these objects of pure, physical desire, while he and the others dangled above them, utterly neutered. He chanced a look at Margot. She was listening to Dolores, a small, private smile playing on her lips as she traced the rim of her champagne flute. Was she imagining that waiter’s hands on her? The thought was a sharp, physical pain.
“It’s all about the prostate, really,” Georgina stated matter-of-factly, as if discussing a new recipe for scones. “So many men are woefully ignorant of its potential. A proper milking can unlock such… reservoirs of pleasure.”
Henry, in his cage, let out a soft moan. Paolo, however, chuckled. “You hear that, Rup? Reservoirs. We’re sitting on undiscovered country.”
Rupert couldn’t form a reply. The plug inside him felt enormous, a stark reminder of his own unexplored geography.
Finally, the main course plates were cleared. Julia stood, and a anticipatory silence fell.
“Ladies. I hope you enjoyed your meal. But every good dinner must end with a sweet treat.” She gestured, and the three waiters moved to the now-cleared centre of the table. In a synchronized, fluid motion, they lay down on the polished wood, their heads pillowed on their arms, their powerful bodies stretched out like a feast.
Julia returned from a side room carrying a large silver tray laden with bowls of whipped cream, jugs of glossy chocolate sauce, and shakers of colourful sprinkles.
“Help yourselves,” she said, her voice a low purr.
A gleeful chaos ensued. Brenda giggled as she dolloped whipped cream onto one waiter’s stomach. Ingrid, with a yogi’s precision, drizzled chocolate sauce in intricate patterns over another’s chest. Agnes, with a mischievous glint, sprinkled hundreds and thousands over a particularly prominent area of the third waiter’s thong.
Rupert could only watch, his mouth dry. He saw Margot lean over the waiter nearest to her, the one with the most defined abdominal muscles. She scooped up a fingerful of cream and chocolate from his skin and slowly brought it to her mouth, her eyes locked on Rupert’s cage as she licked it clean. The message was unmistakable. This was pleasure. This was indulgence. And he was not a participant; he was a spectator.
The women ate, their laughter growing louder, more uninhibited. They fed each other morsels from the waiters’ bodies, their fingers tracing over oiled skin and firm muscle. The waiters remained perfectly still, their breathing the only sign of life, their masked faces turned towards the vaulted ceiling, past the swinging cages.
When the last of the toppings had been consumed and licked from fingers, Julia clapped her hands. The waiters rose, their bodies glistening with sticky residue, and began efficiently clearing the hall, moving the long table and chairs against the walls with practiced ease. They then filed out, leaving the women and the caged men in the suddenly vast, open space of the barn.
The air was thick with the scent of sex, sugar, and sweat.
Julia stood in the centre of the room, her hands on her hips, her gaze sweeping over the assembled women and then lifting to the three spheres.
“Now,” she said, her voice cutting through the post-prandial languor. “The competitions will begin.”