Chapter 53: Get Comfy
The crimson chair awaited him like a throne of judgment. Before Rupert could muster a protest, four women from the circle stepped forward—not the waiters, but members of the WI. Felicity, Charlie, and two others whose names floated just out of reach in his buzzing mind. Their expressions were kindly, efficient.
“Right then, up you get,” Felicity said, taking his elbow. Her grip was firm, guiding.
“Just relax, Rupert,” Charlie murmured, her touch on his other arm surprisingly delicate. “It’s part of the experience.”
He was led the short distance to the chair. The velvet was cooler than he expected, smooth against his bare back and thighs as he sat. The high back rose around his head, isolating his view to the front, to the blank, waiting screen. Then the women bent to their tasks. Felicity knelt, her work-rough hands securing the leather cuff around his right ankle. It was snug, padded on the inside, but immutable. The buckle clicked with terrible finality. The left followed.
Charlie took his right wrist. She lifted his arm, placed it along the chair’s armrest, and fastened the cuff. He felt the pulse in his wrist hammering against the leather. His left arm was secured by another woman, a pleasant-faced grandmother type who hummed as she worked.
In less than a minute, he was bound. The restraints were not cruel, but they were absolute. He could shift an inch or two, but escape was unthinkable. The vulnerability was total, different from being on display on the bed. This was passive, anticipatory. He was an object to be used for viewing.
The hum of the room lowered. The audience resumed their seats, their faces turned towards him and the screen, a low current of excitement in the air.
Julia approached. She had shed her robe and stood before him again in just the corset and stockings, a silhouette of absolute authority. She stopped, her knees almost touching his, and looked down at him. A smile played on her lips, not unkind, but proprietorial. She reached out and ran a fingertip along his jawline.
“Comfortable?” she asked, her voice a low purr.
He swallowed. “I feel a bit… exposed.”
“You are. Beautifully so.” She leaned in then, one hand on the chair back beside his head. Her perfume, jasmine and iron, filled his senses. “You’ve been very good. A reward before the main feature.”
Her mouth covered his. It was not the aggressive, commanding kiss from before, but something slower, deeper, deliberately messy. Her tongue explored his mouth with a lazy dominance. He could only receive it, his head cradled by the chair back, his arms and legs useless. She tasted of champagne and dark chocolate. When she finally pulled back, a thin strand of saliva connected their lips for a second before breaking.
“Settle in, Rupert,” she whispered, her breath warm on his wet mouth. “The film is about to start.”
She turned and walked to a small podium with a simple control panel. The house lights dimmed further, plunging the seated audience into shadow, leaving Rupert in a soft, focused pool of light, and the screen glowing white.
A projector whirred to life somewhere above.
The screen flickered. Static resolved into the sharp, high-definition image of a bedroom. It was unfamiliar to Rupert—tastefully decorated in neutral tones, a large bed with a velvet headboard, soft lamps casting a warm, intimate glow. It felt like a luxury hotel suite.
A figure walked into the frame from the right.
Rupert’s breath hitched.
It was Margot.
She stopped center-screen, facing the camera, full-length. She had changed. Gone was the quirky Christmas jumper. She wore a set of lingerie of such elegant, devastating intention that it stole the air from the room. It was black lace, intricate as a spider’s web, cupping her full breasts and flowing into a cinched corset that defined her waist. Fine silk stockings, the seams perfectly straight, led up to the lace-edged tops of her thighs. Her fiery red curls were artfully tumbled around her shoulders. She looked directly into the lens, a slow, knowing, and utterly mischievous smile spreading across her face.
In the velvet chair, Rupert strained against the cuffs, not to escape, but in sheer, shocked recognition. The image of his wife, presented like this, in this context, to this audience, short-circuited every thought. It was at once the most erotic and most confounding thing he had ever seen.
The audience released a collective, soft sigh of appreciation.
On screen, Margot’s smile widened. She winked.