Chapter 70: The Final Trophies
The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and bergamot. Rupert stared at the calendar on the refrigerator, a cheerful monstrosity produced by the Women’s Institute each year. Smiling faces of women he knew—who ran the post office, who taught yoga, who baked the best lemon drizzle cake—beamed out at him from various pastoral scenes. Margot had pinned it up that morning, a bright red ‘X’ through October.
Now, she stood beside him, tapping a perfectly manicured nail on November’s image. It featured Karen, the young florist, photographed amidst a sunny explosion of gerberas and peonies, her hands cradling her pronounced bump. Her smile was radiant, maternal.
“After lunch,” Margot said, her voice breezy as she poured more tea into his mug. “She’s expecting you around two. Her Pete’s away on that plumbing contract in Aberdeen until Friday.”
Rupert’s mind stuttered. Karen. Twenty-eight. Freckles. Always had dirt under her nails from arranging peonies. Eight months pregnant. He’d congratulated her in the village shop just last week.
“Expecting me for what, exactly?” he asked, though the hot tub confession, the memory of Julia’ clinical hands and the shameful, thrilling arousal they’d summoned, told him the answer.
Margot leaned against the counter, sipping her tea. A curl of red hair stuck to her damp temple; they’d only been out of the tub an hour. “For orgasms, darling. Lots of them. The midwife says it’s excellent for softening the cervix. Brings on labour nicely. And since Pete’s not here…” She shrugged, as if detailing a grocery list. “She’s terribly uncomfortable, poor thing. All that pressure. You’ll be a relief.”
A violent cocktail of emotions—absurdity, terror, a illicit flicker of curiosity—churned in Rupert’s gut. “Margot. She’s… she’s enormous.”
“And horny, apparently. Hormones are fascinating things.” She set her cup down with a click. “Think of it as community service. A practical contribution to the village’s future generation.”
“This isn’t bottling jam for the fête!”
“No,” she agreed, her eyes glinting. “It’s considerably more useful. And don’t give me that look. You enjoyed Julia’s… attentions. Once you surrendered to them. This is different. Service-oriented. It’s not about your pleasure, it’s about hers. A focus I think you’ll find… liberating.”
He remembered the sleep sack. The peace of being an object. A tool. The thought was a quiet anchor in the storm of his panic.
“What am I supposed to do?” The question was barely a whisper.
“Whatever she asks,” Margot said, moving to him. She straightened his collar, a wifely gesture utterly at odds with the conversation. “Use your mouth. Your hands. The toys she’ll doubtless have ready. Your job is to make her come, as many times as she can handle, or until you chafe. Whichever comes first.” She smiled, a genuine, warm smile that baffled him. “She’s a sweet girl. It won’t be a dungeon. It’ll be a bedroom with too many pillows and the smell of lavender oil.”
He looked from Margot’s resolute face to Karen’s glowing photo. The mundanity of the kitchen—the ticking clock, the hum of the fridge—pressed in on him, making the whole proposition feel both insane and weirdly inevitable. This was his life now. A life of secret assignments marked with red ‘X’s.
“And if I say no?”
Margot’s hand stilled on his chest. Her playful tone softened into something more vulnerable, more real. “Then you say no. The calendar isn’t a law, Rupert. It’s an invitation. But…” She searched his eyes. “You were so alive last night. In the tub. After telling me everything. I haven’t seen that man in a long, long time. I miss him. I think you do, too.”
He was silent. The ghost of prostate milking with Georgina—a startling, overwhelming fullness that had rewritten his understanding of his own body—flashed through him. He thought of Henry and Elizabeth’s mansion, the unspoken tension there he was now part of. This was a web, and he was already caught in it.
“All afternoon?” he finally croaked.
“All afternoon,” she confirmed, the mischief returning. She patted his cheek. “I’ve packed you a little bag. Coconut oil. Hydrating cream. A energy bar. Be a good lad.”
At five minutes to two, Rupert stood on the neat flagstone path leading to Karen’s cottage. A hanging basket of winter pansies bobbed cheerfully by the blue door. He clutched the small canvas bag Margot had thrust into his hands. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic prisoner.
The door opened before he could knock.
Karen stood there, wrapped in a huge, cerise pink kimono. Her curly brown hair was piled messily on her head. She looked flushed, enormous, and slightly pained.
“Rupert,” she said, with a sigh of clear relief. “God, you’re punctual. Come in. I’m having a bloody Braxton Hicks marathon and I need it to stop.” She turned and waddled inside, leaving him to follow.
The living room was a nest of cushions and blankets. The television was on low, showing a property programme. The air was thick with the scent of lavender and something else, something muskier, uniquely her.
She lowered herself onto a vast, plush sofa with a groan, arranging pillows behind her back. She looked at him, standing awkwardly by the door like a delivery man.
“Right,” she said, all business. “Margot explained it all, yeah? You’re not weird about it?”
“I… I’m trying not to be,” he admitted.
“Good. Because I’m past dignity. I just need to come. It’s the only thing that eases the ache for a few hours.” She untied the sash of her kimono. It fell open. Underneath, she wore only a pair of enormous black cotton knickers. Her belly was a taut, beautiful globe, her breasts full and heavy. She didn’t look erotic; she looked profoundly, functionally female. “Pillow,” she instructed, pointing to the floor by the sofa. “Kneel. Let’s not overcomplicate it.”
His accountant’s mind shut off. His body moved. He took a pillow from an armchair, knelt on it, the rough fabric of his trousers a strange contrast to the intimate domesticity of the scene. She spread her legs, making room for him between the sofa and her body.
“Just your mouth to start,” Karen said, her head falling back against the cushions, eyes closed. “I’m so sensitive it’s almost painful. Be gentle. But not too gentle.”
Rupert took a breath that smelled of lavender and her. He leaned in, his hands resting tentatively on her inner thighs. He followed instructions.
Twenty minutes later, she shuddered, a deep, guttural sound wrenching from her throat as her first climax rolled through her. Her hands fisted in his hair, not guiding, just anchoring. He kept going, gentle and persistent, as Margot had implied he should. The taste was different, stronger, a tidal physiology he was navigating blind.
“Good,” Karen panted, patting his head. “Good. Okay. Now, the vibrator. In the drawer there. The purple one.”
He fetched it. She showed him the settings. He used it while she watched the property show, her breath hitching periodically. She came again, quieter this time, a series of sharp sighs.
The afternoon blurred into a strange, tender, utterly surreal routine of hydration breaks, repositioning pillows, and focused, deliberate pleasure. There was no passion, no conquest. It was maintenance. A corporeal kindness. He felt, as Margot had promised, oddly free. His own arousal was a distant, irrelevant thing. He was a instrument, finely tuned to her need.
As the November light began to fade outside the window, she reached for him after her fourth, shuddering peak. Her eyes were hazy with endorphins and fatigue.
“That’s it,” she murmured. “I’m done. I can feel my toes again.” She looked at him, really looked at him, her gaze clearing. “You’re better at this than Pete. He gets impatient.” She tugged her kimono closed. “Thank you, Rupert. Seriously.”
He nodded, his jaw aching, his knees sore. He felt emptied out. Useful.
“There’s biscuit tin in the kitchen,” she said, already snuggling down into her nest. “Help yourself.”