Chapter 57: Bacchanalia Part 2
The heavy, satisfied silence that had settled over the Playbarn after the screen went black didn’t last long. Julia clapped her hands once, a sharp, authoritative sound that cut through the murmurs.
“Right. Waiters, if you please. Clear the tables. Push them to the walls. We’ll want the floor space.”
The masked servers, their anonymity now feeling like part of the furniture, moved with silent efficiency. Glasses were collected, chairs scraped across the flagstones, and the long dining table was dismantled and stacked against a wall adorned with a painted mural of hopscotch squares. The room transformed from a dinner venue into a hollow, fire-lit hall, the three spherical cages hanging ominously from their hoists over the now-empty centre.
Rupert, still reeling and wiping himself clean with the damp cloth, watched the activity with a numb detachment. The visceral shock of what he’d seen, of what had been done to him, was beginning to harden into a cold, heavy knot in his stomach. Margot was gone. She was in a hotel room, being… He couldn’t finish the thought.
Agnes, sipping her brandy, eyed the burgeoning space with a glint. “Shifting the furniture, Julia? Are we having a knees-up?”
“Of a sort,” Julia said. She walked to a large, woven hamper that had been brought in and placed by the fireplace. With a flourish, she flipped open the lid. “We are having a celebration. Our winner,” she nodded at Rupert, “has had his prize. But the night, and Halloween, are still young.”
From the hamper, she began to lift out a series of objects. They were harnesses, made of black leather and shiny pink satin. And attached to each, in a variety of shapes, sizes, and improbable colours, were silicone phalluses. Some were modest, others were frankly absurd, veined and curving.
A collective, delighted gasp went up from the women.
“Oh, I call the purple one!” chirped Karen, heaving her pregnant frame out of her chair with surprising agility.
“The glittery black one has my name on it,” declared Henrietta, already unbuttoning her cardigan.
Dolores elbowed Paolo, who was staring, mesmerized. “See the red one, cariño? That’s the one from Barcelona.” Paolo just nodded, a slow, happy smile spreading across his face as his hand went to the front of his tight trousers.
Julia laid the array of strap-ons on a cleared trestle table like a sommelier presenting fine wines. “As the victorious cuckold,” she announced, her voice carrying, “Rupert is permitted to participate. He may choose to be an observer, of course. But he may join.”
Rupert’s mouth went dry. Participation hadn’t been part of any scenario he’d imagined.
“And the losers?” Elizabeth asked, arching an eyebrow towards Henry and Paolo. Henry looked simultaneously terrified and excited, his fingers nervously tracing the outline of the chastity device beneath his costume.
Julia’s smile was thin. “The locked losers will serve. They will fetch drinks, apply lubricant where directed, offer towels, and generally make themselves useful. They are furniture tonight. Pleasurable furniture, but furniture nonetheless. Understood?”
Paolo nodded eagerly. Henry squeaked a “Yes, Julia.”
“Good. Now, ladies… suit up.”
What followed was a bizarre and captivating spectacle of mundane preparation and rising anticipation. Brenda, the baker, helped Felicity, the farmer, buckle a sturdy-looking navy blue harness over her hips. Georgina, the church volunteer, carefully selected a modest, flesh-toned piece, her movements precise and clinical. Ingrid, the hippy, simply stepped out of her flowing skirt, already naked beneath, and slipped into a jade green harness with a serene smile, immediately settling into a deep squat to test the flexibility.
Rupert stood frozen, a island of confusion in a sea of purposeful activity. He watched Libby, the December widow, giggling as she struggled with a clasp, helped by a surprisingly deft Charlie from the library. Karen was already wearing her purple harness over her bump, giving the attached toy an experimental slap that made it wobble comically.
“Right,” Julia said, now wearing a severe-looking harness of her own in polished black leather. “The rules are simple. There are no rules. Except for you three.” She pointed at Rupert, Henry, and Paolo. “You two,” she indicated the locked husbands, “service. You,” her gaze landed on Rupert, “will wait for an invitation. Do not assume.”
Agnes, now wearing a pink satin harness with a ridiculously curved appendage, walked up to Rupert. She looked him up and down, her old eyes sharp. “Don’t just stand there gawping, lad. You won the vote. Might as well see what all the fuss is about.” She patted his cheek, then turned and sauntered towards the centre of the room where Ingrid was already stretching on a mat.
The orgy didn’t begin with a frenzy. It coalesced. It started with sounds. A sigh from Ingrid as Agnes’s skilled, wrinkled hands found her breasts. A low laugh from Dolores as she pulled Brenda into a kiss, flour still ghosting the baker’s hairline. The soft, wet sound of Felicity exploring Elizabeth’s mouth, their strap-ons pressing awkwardly between them.
Then the movements began. Karen lowered herself onto a pile of cushions, guiding Charlie’s face between her thighs. Henrietta, on her knees, took the glittering black toy into her mouth, her hands on Libby’s hips. Julia stood over Georgina, who was on all fours, applying lube with a steady, practised hand.
Paolo sprang into action, a bottle of lubricant in one hand, a cloth over his arm. He darted to where Dolores and Brenda were entangled, dripping lube onto his wife’s strap-on without a word before moving on. Henry, flustered, carried a tray of water glasses, his eyes wide behind his mask, stopping whenever a hand was raised.
Rupert was adrift. The heat in the room was immense, a compound of firelight and exertion and musk. The sight was overwhelming, a tangle of limbs and glossy silicone and flushed skin, so far removed from the quiet desperation of his marital bed it felt like a different planet. He felt a painful, conflicting throb of arousal beneath his costume, shamed by its persistence.
He watched Julia, the former police officer, begin to press into Georgina from behind. Georgina’s face, usually so prim at the collection plate, was a mask of profound, focused concentration that broke into a silent, open-mouthed cry.
“Towel, Henry!” Julia commanded, not missing a stroke. Henry scurried over, offering the towel. Julia took it and draped it over Georgina’s back. “Good. Now, more lube. Here.” She pointed to where she was joined to the older woman. Henry’s hands shook as he complied.
“Rupert.”
His name, spoken by Julia, cut through the haze. She was looking at him over Georgina’s heaving shoulder. “You’re hovering. It’s distracting. Ingrid needs attention. Her front is neglected.”
Ingrid was on her back now, her legs splayed, Agnes between them. The hippy’s eyes were closed, her hands roaming her own body. The jade green strap-on lay untouched against her belly.
An invitation. Not to receive, but to give.
His feet moved before his mind could protest. He knelt on the mat beside Ingrid’s head. Her eyes fluttered open. She smiled, a peaceful, welcoming smile, and reached up to guide his head down to her breasts. Her skin smelled of sandalwood and sweat. He obeyed, his mouth finding a nipple, his hands trembling as they touched her sides. He was servicing. But he was also, undeniably, participating.
From his low vantage point, the room expanded into a forest of moving legs, bucking hips, and the gleam of artificial phalluses. He heard Felicity groan, “Christ, yes, just like mucking out, harder!” He saw Brenda, her apron finally gone, riding Dolores’s lap, her head thrown back. He watched as Karen guided Charlie’s slender fingers inside her, chanting, “There, yes, right there, the baby likes it!”
It was chaotic, absurd, and intensely, vibrantly alive. The jeopardy had shifted. It was no longer about the singular shock of Margot’s infidelity. It was about being swallowed whole by this rampant, feminine energy, where he was both a prize and a servant, an observer and a tool.
Julia’s voice rose above the symphony of gasps and slaps. “Paolo! The violet wand. Now. Elizabeth requires… stimulation.”
Paolo rushed to the hamper, pulling out a sinister-looking device with wires and attachments. As he hurried towards where Elizabeth was pinned against a wall by Felicity, he caught Rupert’s eye. He winked, his expression one of pure, unadulterated joy in his servitude.
Rupert, his mouth on Ingrid’s skin, his mind fracturing under the sensory deluge, understood one thing clearly. The game was far from over. It was, in fact, swallowing him whole. And the part of him that was still an accountant, still a husband, still Rupert, had no idea how, or if, he would ever find his way back out.