Chapter 75: Thrid Day of Christmas
The wrought-iron gates to Elizabeth’s manor stood open, a silent invitation that felt more like a maw. Rupert’s stomach tightened as they crunched up the gravel drive. The house loomed, Georgian and severe, its windows dark. Margot, clutching a bag filled with what she called ‘specialist decorations’, hummed a Christmas carol.
“Remember,” she said, squeezing his arm. “Be helpful. Elizabeth has very high standards.”
Henry answered the door. He was a round-faced man with a perpetually kind, anxious expression, dressed in corduroy trousers and a frayed jumper. He gave them a strained smile. “Ah. You’re here. She’s in the drawing room. Best come straight through.”
The hallway was cavernous, a chill seeping from the marble floors. Portraits of grim ancestors lined the walls. From a room to their right, Elizabeth’s voice, clipped and clear, called out. “Bring them in, Henry. And do get the lights on. It’s like a tomb in here.”
The drawing room was a study in controlled opulence. A fire crackled in a vast hearth, but it did little to warm the atmosphere. Elizabeth stood by a grand piano, elegant in a high-necked cashmere dress. Her grey hair was swept into a flawless chignon, and her gaze, as it settled on Rupert, was that of a collector assessing a new piece.
“Margot. Rupert. How good of you to volunteer.” She set down her sherry glass. “Henry, show Rupert to the downstairs loo. He can leave his clothes there. I won’t have the hallway cluttered.”
Rupert’s breath hitched. He looked at Margot. She beamed, giving him a little push. “Go on, darling. We’ll be upstairs in the master bedroom. Don’t dally.”
The downstairs toilet was a small, cold room. Henry hovered by the door, his eyes on the floor. “Best just… do it,” he mumbled. “She gets tetchy.”
With numb fingers, Rupert undressed. The air prickled his skin. He folded his clothes neatly on the closed toilet lid, the ritual absurd in its normality. The chastity device felt especially conspicuous here, a piece of alien hardware in this house of heirlooms.
When he emerged, Henry had also stripped. The older man’s body was soft and pale, a mirror of his own vulnerability, down to the identical silver cage. They stood for a moment in silent, shared humiliation.
“This way,” Henry whispered.
The master bedroom was even larger than the drawing room. A colossal four-poster bed, hung with deep burgundy velvet, dominated the space. The ceiling was a masterpiece of plasterwork. Margot and Elizabeth were unpacking the bag, laying out strings of fairy lights, tinsel, and boxes of baubles. They paused as the men entered.
“There we are,” Elizabeth said, a smile touching her lips. “Much more practical. Now, the task. Henry, you’ll start on the bedposts. Rupert, the mantlepiece. I want everything tastefully coordinated. No garishness.”
For the next half hour, they worked in silence broken only by Elizabeth’s directives. “More to the left, Rupert.” “Henry, that tinsel is drooping. Fix it.” Rupert’s fingers fumbled with the tiny hooks of the baubles, his focus split between the task and the profound exposure of his nakedness. The portraits on the walls seemed to watch, their painted eyes following him.
Once the room was shimmering with lights and greenery, Elizabeth clapped her hands softly. “Excellent. Now for the pièce de résistance.”
From the bottom of the bag, Margot produced a smaller box. She opened it with a flourish. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, were decorations unlike any Rupert had seen before. Baubles of deep crimson and gold, but each one fitted with a tiny, precise silver clamp. There were strings of beads with clip-on fasteners, a sprig of holly with a leather strap, and two red ball-gags, each with a jingle bell attached to the centre.
“Every Christmas tree needs decorating,” Elizabeth said, her voice low and pleased. “You two will do nicely.”
Margot picked up a crimson bauble. “Arms by your sides, Rupert. Chin up.”
The cold metal of the clamp closed on his left nipple with a sharp, biting pinch. He hissed. A weight, delicate but undeniable, hung from him. Another clamp seized his right nipple, a golden bauble this time. Henry was receiving similar treatment from Elizabeth, who worked with the efficient concentration of a florist arranging an expensive bouquet.
They were adorned methodically. Clip-on beads were fastened along the cage’s bar, a tiny, tinkling cascade. The holly sprig was strapped around his thigh, the leaves prickling his skin. Lastly, Elizabeth stood before him, holding the ball-gag. The red silicone glistened, the bell at its centre giving a faint, absurd jingle.
“Open wide,” she instructed.
He did. The ball filled his mouth, the straps digging behind his head. The taste was sterile, rubbery. Across from him, Henry was similarly gagged, his eyes wide and watering.
“Positions, please,” Elizabeth said. She directed them to opposite corners of the vast room. “Stand straight. You are festive installations. Living art. You will not move. You will not make a sound beyond the jingling, which is quite festive.”
Rupert stood, weighed down by the decorations, the clamps sending a throbbing ache through his chest. The fairy lights twinkled merrily on the bedposts. From his corner, he had a perfect view of the enormous four-poster.
Elizabeth checked her watch. “Our final guest should be here shortly. He’s bringing the star for the top of the tree, as it were.” She glanced at Margot, and they shared a smile.
A low bell chimed somewhere downstairs. Henry flinched. Elizabeth smoothed her dress. “That will be him. Remember, gentlemen. Stillness is paramount.”
Footsteps, confident and heavy, echoed in the hall. The door opened. A man stepped in—tall, broad-shouldered, perhaps in his late thirties, with a close-cropped beard and an easy, powerful stance. He wore dark jeans and a simple black sweater. He carried a bottle of champagne and a small, wrapped box.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice a warm baritone. “The place looks magical.” His eyes swept the room, passing over the decorated men in the corners without a flicker of surprise, as if living Christmas trees were entirely expected. His gaze lingered appreciatively on Margot before settling on their hostess.
“Oliver, darling, you’re right on time,” Elizabeth purred. “This is Margot. And these,” she gestured languidly toward the corners, “are our seasonal fixtures. We’re just deciding which is more aesthetically pleasing. The judging is so difficult.”
Oliver set the champagne down. He walked over to Henry first, circling him slowly. He adjusted a bauble hanging from a clamp, making Henry whimper behind his gag. “Classic. A little traditional for my tastes.” He moved to Rupert. His presence was a wave of heat and cologne. He reached out and flicked a beaded string on the cage, setting it tinkling. “This one has a more modern aesthetic. But the droop on the left bauble is a design flaw.”
He stepped back, putting an arm around Elizabeth’s waist. “I say the classic one loses. He looks… sloppy.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I concur. Henry, dear, you’re the worst-dressed tree. You know what that means.”
Henry’s shoulders slumped.
Oliver turned his attention to the four-poster. He began to undress with a casual, unselfconscious grace. His body was a stark contrast to Henry’s and Rupert’s—tanned, muscular, powerful. Elizabeth watched, her previously prim demeanor melting away into something hungry and avid.
She laid herself back on the velvet coverlet, hiking her cashmere dress up to her waist. She wore nothing underneath.
What followed was a performance of raw, vigorous consumption. Oliver took Elizabeth with a focused, athletic intensity that made the bed ropes creak in a steady, rhythmic protest. Elizabeth was transformed, her cultured cries echoing off the plaster ceiling, her hands raking down Oliver’s back. It was not love; it was a frantic, devouring need being met.
Rupert was forced to watch, a statue of shame and unwanted arousal. The clamps on his nipples bit with each of Elizabeth’s cries. The bell on his gag jingled softly with his ragged breathing. Across the room, Henry stared at the floor, tears cutting clean lines through his flushed cheeks.
It was over with a final, guttural shout from Oliver, and a long, shuddering wail from Elizabeth. He collapsed beside her, both of them slick with sweat, breathing heavily in the twinkling light.
A profound silence settled, broken only by the pop of the champagne cork. Oliver poured two glasses. He and Elizabeth drank, toasting each other with soft laughter.
Then Elizabeth sat up. She swung her legs off the bed, the evidence of their union glistening on her inner thighs. She looked directly at Henry.
“Henry,” she said, her voice regaining its crisp edge. “Your prize. Come and clean up. You know I can’t stand a mess.”
Henry shuffled forward, his movements stiff with shame. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, his head bowed.
“Use your tongue,” Elizabeth commanded, spreading her legs. “Every last drop. Margot, be a dear and ensure he’s thorough.”
Margot moved to stand beside Henry, a gentle but firm overseer. “You heard her, Henry. No skimping.”
As Henry began his mortifying task, Elizabeth sipped her champagne and looked over at Rupert. Her eyes, glazed with pleasure just moments before, were now sharp and evaluating.
“Yours was adequate, Rupert,” she said. “Adequate enough for an invitation back, perhaps. After the New Year. I have a dining table that needs polishing. A very long, very old table. It requires a… particular kind of attention.”
Oliver chuckled into his glass. Rupert stood in his corner, the fairy lights blurring in his vision, understanding with a sick, deep certainty that this was not the end. It was merely the end of the preamble. The manor had claimed him, and the rules of the game had just become terrifyingly clear.