Chapter 52: The Fine Print
The applause softened into a murmur of conversation and the shifting of chairs. Rupert lay beside Julia, the sweat cooling on his skin, the reality of the room seeping back in. He was adrift on the satin, utterly spent.
Julia sat up with a grimace of effort, the corset creaking. She swung her legs off the bed and stood, facing the audience. A slick, pearlescent trickle escaped her inner thigh and traced a path down her stocking.
“A commendable volume, Rupert,” she announced, her voice once more the crisp, carrying instrument of the hostess. “But a mess requires tidying.”
She turned her head, looking down at him where he still lay, exposed. “Clean it up.”
A beat of silence. Then, from the back of the room, a single voice, giggling and clear, called out, “Lick it up!”
Another voice joined. “Yes! Lick it up!”
Within seconds, it became a gentle, rhythmic chant. “Lick. It. Up. Lick. It. Up.” It wasn’t hostile; it was playful, encouraging, a shared joke with him as the punchline. His face burned. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, his body protesting.
Julia simply watched, one eyebrow arched, a faint smile playing on her lips. The chant continued, a light percussion beneath the hum of the room.
Humiliation warred with a bizarre, residual arousal. The order was base, degrading. Yet, it was also a continuation of the intimacy, a final, claiming gesture. He moved, clumsy as a newborn foal, and knelt on the floor before her. The wood was hard under his knees.
The mingled scent of their sex was potent this close. He placed his hands on her stockings, steadying himself, and leaned in. The first touch of his tongue was tentative, salty, unmistakable. The chant rose in volume, approving now. He closed his eyes, shutting out the faces, and focused on the task. He lapped at the slickness on her thigh, then, with a shuddering breath, pressed his mouth to her. She was still swollen, sensitive; she inhaled sharply as his tongue found her core, cleaning the evidence of his own release. The act was shockingly submissive, more so than anything before it. It laid him bare in an entirely new way.
When he pulled back, his mouth tingling, she gave a single, satisfied nod. The chanting dissolved into applause and cheerful whoops.
“Good boy,” she said, quietly, for him alone. Then, louder, “A glass of champagne for our performer.”
A waiter appeared instantly, offering Rupert a crystal flute. He took it with trembling fingers, the cool stem a stark contrast to his feverish skin. He rose to his feet, desperately aware of his nakedness, and took a gulp. The bubbles were sharp, shocking, a return to civilization.
“Mingle, Rupert,” Julia commanded, waving a hand towards the room as she herself accepted a robe from another attendant, wrapping it regally around her corseted frame. “You’ve earned a little admiration.”
The crowd began to disperse from their formal seating, breaking into smaller groups. The waiters swiftly descended on the bed, stripping the soiled satin with efficient, impersonal snaps. Rupert stood frozen, glass in hand, a statue of self-consciousness.
Charlie from the library was the first to approach. She adjusted her glasses, a shy smile on her face. Up close, he could see the delicate black lace at the neckline of her modest dress. “That was quite… informative,” she said, her voice soft. “I’ve only read about such techniques. The neuromuscular control is fascinating.”
“Oh, it’s all practice, Charlie,” said Felicity, the farmer, joining them. She smelled of fresh air and faintly of animal feed. She looked Rupert up and down with a frank, appraising gaze that made him want to cover himself with the champagne flute. “You did well. Stamina. Important in a man. Like a good draft horse.” She reached out and gave his bicep a firm, calloused squeeze. “Solid. You should come by the farm sometime. I’ve got a new stallion who could learn a thing or two about patience.”
Rupert choked on his champagne.
A third woman, whose name he didn’t know, sidled up. “I loved the way you followed instructions at the end. Just let go. My Henry could never. Thinks too much.” She sighed, sipping her drink. “A blank canvas is so much more fun to work with, isn’t it?”
He was passed around like a curious artifact. Compliments on his form, questions about the sensation of the cage, light, teasing touches on his arm, his back. The humiliation morphed, warmed by the champagne and the unabashed, non-cruel interest. It was bizarrely flattering. He was the centre of a secret, celebratory world.
Across the room, he saw Julia in quiet consultation with two waiters. She pointed, they nodded. With brisk efficiency, they cleared the last of the bed frame away, revealing the polished oak floor. From a discreet alcove, they wheeled out a single piece of furniture: an imposing, high-backed chair, upholstered in deep crimson velvet. It was fitted with sturdy, polished cuffs at the ends of the arms and the front legs.
A low mechanical whirr came from the ceiling. Rupert, and everyone else, looked up. A large, white cinema screen began to unroll silently, descending to cover a portion of the far wall. It faced the solitary chair.
The mingling conversations died down. A new, curious tension filled the space. The screen was a blank eye, a promise of something else.
Julia clapped her hands twice. “The intermission is over, ladies. Please, take your seats. Rupert.” Her eyes found his. “The chair is for you.”
The warmth from the champagne and the attention evaporated. The velvet chair waited under the stark light, its cuffs open and waiting. The empty screen seemed to swell, hungry for an image. He set his glass down on a passing tray, the chill returning to his bones. The performance was not over. He was not yet an audience member again. He was still the subject.
And still, nowhere in the crowd of smiling, chatting, expectant women, could he see the face of his wife.