Chapter 73: On the First Day of Christmas
The scent of incense hit him first—sandalwood and something vaguely citrus—followed by a wall of heat that was thick as a blanket. Rupert hesitated on the threshold of Dolores’ dance studio, the transition from the crisp December morning to this tropical atmosphere feeling like stepping into another country.
“Come in, come in, close the door!” Dolores called, her voice a musical command. She stood in the center of the sprung wooden floor, a vibrant figure in a magenta leotard that showcased her formidable posture. “We are wasting the heat!”
The studio was a long, mirrored room, sunlight streaming through high windows to catch the dust motes dancing in the air. The other women were already there, sprawled on brightly coloured mats, stretching with casual grace. Elizabeth in slate-grey athleisure that looked couture. Charlie in a practical black tank top and leggings, her glasses fogged at the edges. Felicity in a faded sports bra and shorts, her skin already glistening as if she’d come straight from mucking out. Margot, beside him, gave his hand a squeeze and released it, moving to her own mat with a fluidity that spoke of practice.
“Right, Rupert,” Margot said, her voice bright and carrying. “Pop your kit off and grab a mat. Back of the class, I think.”
A soft chorus of amused murmurs rippled through the room. Elizabeth arched a perfect eyebrow. Felicity grinned, wiping her neck with a towel.
Rupert’s mouth went dry. The instruction, delivered so plainly in this company, made the reality of his situation contract sharply around him. The green triangle beneath his clothes felt like a branding. The cage, a constant, gentle pressure.
“All of it?” he heard himself ask, the words stupid in the heated air.
“Well, you can’t do hot yoga in joggers, darling,” Margot said, unrolling her mat with a flick of her wrists. “You’ll melt. It’s just us.”
Dolores clapped her hands. “Vamos! We are burning the clock!”
With fingers that felt thick and clumsy, Rupert complied. The zip of his tracksuit bottoms was deafening. He pushed them down, stepping out, followed by his pants. The cool air of the room, which was still warm, touched his bared skin, a shocking contrast to the heat radiating from the floor. He kept his eyes down, feeling the weight of unseen gazes. He heard a choked laugh—Felicity, he thought—and then a low, approving hum from someone else.
He unfolded a mat at the back, as instructed. As he lay it down, he glanced up.
The view was breathtaking in a way that had nothing to do with conventional beauty and everything to do with intimate, staggering exposure. Before him was a lineup of women in skin-tight lycra, bending and reaching. The fabric revealed every curve, every dip, the sweep of a spine, the muscular definition of a thigh, the soft swell of buttocks pulled taut by a forward fold. Elizabeth’s pose was pristine, aristocratic. Charlie’s was compact, precise. Felicity’s was powerful, earthy. And Margot, his wife, moved with a lush, confident rhythm that made his heart clench.
And he was naked. Utterly, ridiculously on display. The plastic cage felt enormous, a grotesque focal point. The dyed hair itched faintly.
“We begin in child’s pose,” Dolores announced, sinking down with effortless grace. “Rest the forehead. Breathe into the back.”
Rupert lowered himself, his knees on the mat, his forehead seeking the floor. The pose hid his face, but it presented his bare backside to the empty mirror behind him, and to the studio at large. The vulnerability was absolute. He could hear the rustle of clothing, the soft sighs of breath.
The class proceeded. Downward dog. Plank. Dolores moved among them, her hands adjusting a shoulder here, a hip there. Her touch was firm, impersonal.
“Rupert, the hips higher in down dog. Imagine your sit bones are a pair of headlights, pointing to the ceiling.”
He adjusted, the stretch burning along his hamstrings. From his inverted position, he stared at the forest of legs and feet in front of him. He saw Charlie’s neat, pedicured toes. Felicity’s grass-stained heels.
The heat intensified. Sweat beaded on his back, tickled as it ran down the groove of his spine. It pooled in the small of his back, dripped onto the mat. The scent of the room changed, deepening with the musk of effort, of perfumed deodorant struggling against rising warmth.
“Warrior two,” Dolores commanded.
He rose, turning, legs wide, arms outstretched. He was facing the mirrored wall now. The full, shocking image of himself confronted him. A pale, sweating man, stark naked but for a absurd black plastic device and a patch of comical green hair. Behind his reflection, he saw the rows of women, a sea of focused, contorted bodies, a ballet of straining fabric and slick skin. His own reflection was a discordant, carnivalesque figure planted in the midst of it.
Elizabeth caught his eye in the mirror and held it, a slight, knowing smile touching her lips as she deepened her lunge. Charlie, beside her, glanced over, pushed her glasses up her nose, and looked away, a faint pink blush rising on her chest.
The poses became more tortuous. Pigeon pose, where he lay with one knee bent, his exposed groin pressed against the mat. The cage dug in uncomfortably. Dolores knelt beside him, her hand pressing firmly on his back to open his hip. “Good, good,” she muttered, her breath hot near his ear. “You carry much tension here.”
He groaned, a mix of genuine stretch and profound humiliation. The pressure inside the cage built, a dull, persistent throb that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with frustrating confinement.
Finally, after an eternity, Dolores brought them to rest in savasana, the corpse pose. “Surrender to the floor,” she intoned. “Let the heat purify.”
Rupert lay flat on his back, eyes closed, breathing heavily. The cool wood against his sweaty back was a relief. He was achingly, messily hard inside his prison, the green triangle of hair feeling sticky and absurd. Around him, he could hear the steadying breaths of the women. The rustle as someone shifted.
A soft, deliberate touch on his ankle made his eyes fly open.
Margot was kneeling by his feet, a bottle of water in her hand. She unscrewed the lid, leaned over him, and slowly trickled a thin, cool stream of water onto his chest. It ran in rivulets down his sides. She did it with a serene, caretaker’s expression, as if anointing him.
No one else moved. The act was quiet, possessive, and profoundly theatrical.
“Alright, up we get,” Dolores said, her voice breaking the spell. “Slowly. The shower is through there if anyone needs. Then, coffee.”
The women rose, stretching languidly, chatting about the intensity of the heat. They gathered towels, water bottles, avoiding looking directly at Rupert as he clumsily got to his feet, shielding himself with a hand that felt pathetic.
In the small, tiled bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face. In the mirror, his reflection was flushed, hair plastered to his forehead, the green dye slightly blurred at the edges from sweat. He looked debauched.
When he emerged, dressed again in his joggers, the studio had been transformed. Mats were rolled, and a low table was set with a cafetiere, cups, and a plate of pastries. The women were perched on folding chairs, on yoga blocks, wrapped in towelling robes. They looked like a council of warrior priestesses in repose.
“Over here, Rupert,” Margot patted a cushion on the floor beside her chair.
He sat, cross-legged, feeling like a page boy at a queen’s court.
“So,” Elizabeth said, sipping her black coffee, her gaze resting on him over the rim of the cup. “Advent. A period of waiting. Of anticipation. Must be quite a unique experience for you.”
“It’s… different,” he managed.
“Different!” Felicity laughed, a rich, hearty sound. “I’ll bet. That little cage looks proper snug. Chafing at all?”
He felt a hot flush crawl up his neck. “A bit. Initially.”
“Vaseline,” Charlie said quietly, not looking up from the book she had inexplicably produced. “Around the ring. At night. Prevents irritation.” She turned a page, a faint smile on her lips. “Chapter twelve of ‘The Sensual Man’s Guide to Denial’. Quite informative.”
The casual, intimate advice, delivered in her librarian’s tone, was more shocking than the question.
“And the tree is a lovely touch,” Dolores chimed in, leaning forward. “Very festive. Paolo would appreciate the artistry. He is always so… messy.”
Margot’s hand came to rest on his head, ruffling his damp hair. “He’s being very good. Aren’t you, darling? Saving it all up.”
The conversation swirled around him—talk of holiday plans, of a new barn roof for Felicity, of the WI Christmas bake-off. He was included, patted, teased. The centre of attention and yet utterly objectified. The cage felt heavier with every laugh, every glance. The green dye itched like a promise.
As they finished their coffee, Margot leaned down, her voice a whisper for him alone, her breath sweet with the scent of almond croissant. “Only twenty-three more days now. Think you can be a good boy for Libby?”
He looked up at her, at the mischievous, loving light in her eyes, and then at the circle of amused, knowing faces of the women who had just shared the most bizarre, humiliating, and perversely thrilling morning of his life. The jeopardy was a tight, sweet coil in his stomach. The map had been followed, and it had led him here, to this strange and breathless fellowship.
He nodded, a slow, definite movement. “I’ll try.”
Margot’s smile was brilliant, victorious. She stood, extending a hand to pull him up. “Good. Because tomorrow, we have an appointment at the manor. Elizabeth wants help decorating the four-poster for the holidays. She says you’re just the right height for hanging the canopy.”