Chapter 74: Second Day of Christmas
The manor house invitation loomed in Rupert’s mind all morning, a vague and unsettling prospect. So when Margot announced instead, just after lunch, that they were popping round to Karen’s for afternoon tea, he felt a wash of relief. Karen was younger, yes, and part of this bewildering conspiracy, but she was also familiar. She made a sublime Victoria sponge.
“She’s still enormous, poor love,” Margot chirped as they walked the short distance to Karen’s cottage. “We should spoil her.”
The cottage was a picture of cozy chaos. A wellington boot lay on its side by the front door, a tiny, paint-stained jacket hung on a peg. Inside, the air was warm, smelling of lemon polish and vanilla. Karen greeted them with a tired but radiant smile, her auburn hair piled in a messy bun, her swollen body sheathed in a soft, stretchy navy dress.
“Hello, you two! Come in, ignore the mess. The little one’s finally napping.”
The sitting room was a sunlit haven of squishy sofas and picture books. Margot breezed in, setting a cake tin on the coffee table. “I brought reinforcements. Rupert, put the kettle on, there’s a love.”
Grateful for a normal task, Rupert disappeared into the small, tidy kitchen. He filled the kettle, found mugs, the familiar ritual soothing his nerves. Through the doorway, he could hear the low murmur of the women’s voices, a gentle laughter. It felt safe.
When he returned with the tea tray, the scene had shifted subtly. Margot was sitting primly on the larger sofa. Karen was settled in the armchair, a cushion supporting her back. On the floor directly in front of the armchair, a single, plump velvet cushion had been placed.
“Just there, Rupert,” Margot said, nodding to the cushion. Her voice was light, but it held a familiar, steel-threaded note of command.
He set the tray down, confusion knitting his brow. “Shall I pour?”
“In a minute,” Margot said. She leaned forward, her expression one of kindly concern. “Karen’s been so uncomfortable, haven’t you, darling? All that pressure. And her husband’s working such long hours. She deserves a proper treat.”
Karen’s cheeks were flushed. She avoided Rupert’s eyes, looking instead at Margot with a mixture of anxiety and wanton anticipation. “I really do,” she said, her voice a little breathy.
Margot’s gaze swung back to Rupert. “So your tea, my sweet, is to lick Karen to a few orgasms. It’ll relax her. And you do enjoy cake.”
The words landed in the sunny room with the weight of a fallen anvil. Rupert’s ears rang. He stared at his wife, then at Karen, who was now looking at him, her green eyes wide and glassy. The domesticity of the setting—the humming fridge, a child’s toy train on the rug, the scent of cake—made the outrageous instruction feel hallucinatory.
“Margot, I…” he started, his voice hoarse.
“Shoes off, darling,” she interrupted, as if reminding him of mere etiquette. “And those trousers. They’ll get crumpled on the floor.”
His heart hammered against the rigid plastic of the cage. This was different from the yoga studio. That had been a public, almost theatrical humiliation. This was private, intimate, a specific service. He found his fingers, clumsy and cold, obeying. He toed off his shoes, unbuttoned his trousers, let them pool around his ankles. He stepped out, standing in his socks and shirt, the cage and its ridiculous green triangle fully exposed to the warm room.
“Good boy,” Margot whispered. “Now, make yourself comfortable.”
He knelt on the velvet cushion. The wool was scratchy against his knees. He was eye-level with Karen’s rounded belly, the soft navy fabric stretched taut over it. He could smell her—a clean, soapy scent underpinned by something warmer, profoundly female.
Karen let out a shaky sigh and shifted forward in the armchair. She gathered the hem of her dress, pulling it up slowly, over her knees, her thighs. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. The skin of her inner thighs was pale, with a delicate tracing of blue veins. The thatch of copper curls glinted in the afternoon light, damp already with arousal.
“Go on, Rupert,” Margot said from the sofa. She had poured herself a cup of tea and was leaning back, watching. “Be thorough. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
He bent forward. The first contact was a shock of heat and salt. He closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of the room, the watching wife, the toy train. There was only this: the musky, potent scent, the taste of her, the overwhelming reality of another woman’s body under his tongue. He tentatively licked a slow stripe.
Karen gasped, a sharp, high sound. Her hands came down, not to push him away, but to sink into his sandy hair. Her grip was firm, insistent. “Oh, god. Yes. There.”
He found a rhythm, guided by the pressure of her hands, by her escalating breaths. The noises she made were raw, unfiltered. Little moans, choked curses, a keening whine that built in her throat. He could feel the tension in her thighs, the way her whole body tightened. Her taste flooded his senses, complex and demanding.
From the sofa, Margot provided quiet commentary, a director off-stage. “Use the flat of your tongue, darling… Slower now, tease her… Good, just like that. She’s close.”
It was utterly surreal. The kettle clicked off in the kitchen. A car passed outside. And he was here, diligently licking a pregnant neighbour to climax in his wife’s full view. The cognitive dissonance made his head spin even as his body, trapped and denied, responded with a furious, trapped ache.
Karen’s first orgasm shuddered through her with a sharp cry. Her back arched off the chair, her hands clenching in his hair. She held him firmly against her as she pulsed around his mouth. He waited, feeling her gradually soften, her breaths coming in ragged sobs.
“Lovely,” Margot murmured approvingly. “But we said a few, Rupert. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He worked through her sensitivity, gentler now, until she began to stir again under his mouth, her hips making small, involuntary circles. The second peak took longer, a deeper, rolling wave that left her whimpering, boneless against the cushions.
“Once more, I think,” Margot said, her voice thoughtful. “For luck. The baby might like it.”
The third was a quiet, intense trembling. Karen simply fell apart, her cries muffled into a cushion she pulled over her face. When she finally went still, her legs fell open limply, and she let out a long, spent sigh that seemed to come from the soles of her feet.
Rupert drew back, his jaw aching, his face wet. He blinked, dazed, the room swimming back into focus. Karen lay flushed and glorious in the armchair, a sheen of sweat on her brow, a serene, satiated smile on her lips.
Margot stood up. “Excellent,” she said, as if he’d just fixed a leaky tap. She walked to the coffee table, opened the cake tin, and cut a generous slice of the Victoria sponge. She placed it on a plate, picked up a fork, and came to stand before him.
“Open,” she said softly.
He looked up at her, this vibrant, impossible woman who was his wife. He opened his mouth. She fed him a forkful of the cake—perfect, light sponge, a layer of raspberry jam, a blanket of cream. The sweetness exploded on his tongue, a shocking contrast, a glorious reward. He almost groaned.
“Good boy,” she repeated, feeding him another bite. “You can get dressed now.”
As he pulled his trousers back on, his movements slow and drained, Karen stirred. She smoothed her dress down and looked at him, her eyes soft and grateful. “Thank you, Rupert,” she said, her voice hoarse. “That was… exactly what I needed.”
Margot handed him his own cup of tea. It was lukewarm. He drank it anyway, the familiar taste anchoring him back to some semblance of normality.
“Right,” Margot said, brushing crumbs from her fingers. “We’d best let you rest. Big day tomorrow at the manor, after all. Elizabeth is very particular about her festive drapes.” She winked at Rupert, then leaned over and kissed Karen’s cheek. “Take care, darling.”
Outside in the crisp air, Rupert felt the world tilt on its axis. The taste of Karen and the taste of vanilla sponge mingled in his mouth. The memory of her climaxes vibrated in his bones. He looked at his wife, striding beside him with a spring in her step.
“Why?” was all he could manage.
She linked her arm through his, hugging it close. “Because she wanted it. Because you could give it. And because,” she said, her tone turning speculative, “I think you’re starting to understand the value of service. Of delayed gratification. Elizabeth will appreciate that. She has such… specific tastes.”
The manor house, with its unseen four-poster, no longer felt like a vague threat. It felt like the next logical, terrifying step. And as they walked home, the sweet stickiness on his lips felt less like a reward and more like a promise, or perhaps, a warning.