Chapter 76: Fourth Day of Christmas
The Bentley’s heated seats did nothing to warm the chill that had settled in Rupert’s bones. He sat stiffly in the passenger seat, the memory of Henry on his knees a film reel he couldn’t switch off. The soft leather of the chastity device, a constant presence for weeks now, felt less like a playful gift and more like a brand.
Margot drove with one hand, the other resting on his thigh. She hummed The Twelve Days of Christmas.
“She said I was adequate,” Rupert mumbled, staring at the passing hedgerows.
“And an invitation back! That’s high praise from Elizabeth,” Margot chirped. “You did wonderfully, darling. Really entered into the spirit.”
“The spirit,” he echoed, flatly.
She glanced at him, her cheerful mask slipping for a microsecond. A flicker of something—doubt, concern—crossed her features before being buried under renewed zeal. “Today will be different. More… clinical. Less theatrical. It’s Julia’s turn.”
“The ex-police officer.”
“Exactly. Very no-nonsense. It’s the fourth day of Christmas, after all. Four calling birds. Or in our case,” she patted his thigh, “one calling enema.”
Julia’s house was a neat, modern bungalow on the outskirts of the village, deceptive in its ordinariness. The door was opened by a woman with steel-grey hair cut in a severe bob, her posture erect, her blue eyes missing nothing. She wore tailored trousers and a crisp white shirt.
“Margot. Rupert. On time. Good.” Julia’s voice was like a filed nail. “Come through. The others are already here.”
She led them not into a living room, but down a stark hallway to a heavy, insulated door. Opening it released a wave of warm, humid air and the faint tang of chlorine. The wet room.
It was a temple to hygiene and control. Black and white tiles covered every surface, gleaming under recessed LED lights. A huge, walk-in shower with multiple chrome heads dominated the far wall. In the center of the space, suspended from a heavy-duty hoist point in the ceiling, was a complex web of black nylon straps. The other WI women were there: Georgina from the church, Libby the December widow, and a few others, all holding delicate china plates with mince pies and glasses of amber sherry. They smiled politely, as if at a summer fete.
“You know the drill by now, Rupert,” Julia said, her tone leaving no room for questions. “Cage stays on. Everything else comes off. Over there.” She pointed to a stainless steel bench.
The tiles were warm underfoot, a small, bizarre mercy. He undressed, feeling the women’s eyes on him—not with Elizabeth’s predatory hunger, but with a curious, almost academic interest. Libby gave him a sympathetic, slightly flushed smile.
“Into the rig,” Julia commanded, gesturing to the suspension bonds.
With expert, economical movements, Julia and Margot guided him into the harness. The straps snugged tight around his thighs, calves, and chest, lifting him until his feet just brushed the floor. He was spread-eagled, utterly exposed, a specimen under bright lights. The cage felt intensely conspicuous.
Julia wheeled over a stainless steel trolley. On it lay a large, clear enema bag with a long hose, a pump, a thermometer, and several large bottles of sterile water. Next to these was a solitary glass of sherry.
“The challenge is straightforward,” Julia announced, addressing both Rupert and the audience. “Capacity and control. We’ll fill you until you signal you can’t take any more. The current village record, held by the late Bernard, is four liters. We’ll see how you fare.”
She held up the sherry glass. “For festive cheer, a small addition to the solution. A little Christmas spice.”
Georgina chuckled, taking a sip of her own sherry. “Poor Bernard always did have a weak constitution. But my, he tried.”
Julia attached the hose to the bag, then squeezed a generous measure of lubricant onto her fingers. Her touch was neither rough nor gentle; it was procedural. Rupert jerked as her cold, slick fingers pressed against him, working him open with dispassionate efficiency.
“Relax your sphincter,” she instructed, as if directing traffic. “Tensing will only cause discomfort.”
The nozzle, when it pressed inside, was cool and intrusive. He gasped. The women watched, nibbling their pies.
Julia opened the valve. A slow, insistent trickle of warm water began its journey into him. It was an odd, heavy sensation, a deep internal fullness that was neither painful nor pleasant, just profoundly alien. He could hear the soft glug of the bag.
“One liter,” Julia stated, watching the level drop.
The fullness grew. A dull pressure built low in his abdomen. He focused on a tile on the wall, counting its edges.
“Two liters.”
A cramp, sudden and sharp, twisted through his gut. He grunted, shifting in the straps. The sherry in the solution seemed to add a vague, warming burn. The women murmured encouragement. “Deep breaths, Rupert,” Libby cooed. “Think of England.”
“Or think of not embarrassing yourself,” Georgina added with a wry smile.
“Three liters.”
The pressure was immense now. He felt impossibly, grotesquely full. His stomach, normally soft, was distended, a taut dome. Sweat beaded on his forehead, mixing with the ambient steam. The cramps came in waves, making his legs tremble. The playful jeopardy had evaporated, replaced by a stark, physical trial. He bit his lip, the metallic taste of blood mixing with the phantom taste of sherry.
Julia studied his face, her head tilted. “Reaching your limit? Bernard gave up at four point two.”
Rupert shook his head, a tiny, desperate movement. He wouldn’t be beaten by a dead man named Bernard.
Julia nodded, almost approvingly. She opened the valve wider.
The influx was faster now, a cold rush that sparked a fresh, violent cramp. A guttural moan escaped him. His vision swam at the edges. The chatter of the women faded into a distant buzz. All that existed was the relentless flow and the screaming pressure in his core.
Suddenly, Julia closed the valve. “Four point five liters. That’s the new record.”
A weak, ragged cheer went up from the WI. Glasses were clinked.
But Julia wasn’t done. She picked up the small glass of sherry. “The festive shot. For endurance.” She detached the main hose and attached a smaller syringe-like tube to the bag’s port. Drawing the sherry into it, she reconnected it and pushed the plunger.
A concentrated bolt of sweet, fiery alcohol joined the saline ocean inside him. It burned, a distinct, shocking trail of heat amidst the cool pressure. Rupert cried out, a strangled sound.
“Release him,” Julia said.
Margot rushed forward, working the quick-release buckles on the harness. The support vanished, and he crumpled to the warm, wet tiles, his body a slave to the intolerable volume within him.
“To the shower stall,” Julia directed. “Now. You may relieve yourself there.”
He couldn’t stand. Margot and Libby hooked their hands under his arms, dragging him across the slick floor into the vast shower enclosure. They propped him on his knees, facing the drain. The women gathered around the glass wall, their faces blurred by the steam beginning to fog the pane.
The valve was inside him, a dam about to burst. Julia, standing outside the door, gave a single, sharp nod. “Now, Rupert.”
He let go.
It was a torrent, a humiliating, endless flood that roared out of him, splashing noisily against the tiles and down the drain. The relief was so profound it was almost ecstatic, a rush that made him lightheaded. He slumped against the glass, spent, as the last of the solution, now tinged amber, swirled away.
The women applauded politely. Through the fogged glass, he saw Margot’s beaming face. But her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes this time. They held a new, watchful uncertainty as she looked at his limp, trembling form huddled on the shower floor. She had wanted to see him tested, to break the complacency. But watching him shatter against a physical limit, his dignity a puddle on the tiles, she felt the first cold trickle of doubt. This wasn’t just playful anymore. The game had weight, and it was bending him.
Julia turned off the water. The sudden silence was deafening.
“A respectable performance,” she said, her voice cutting through the steam. “You’ll do for the dinner party next month. We’ll need someone to serve the soup. From the cages, of course.”
She offered a hand to help him up. It was steady, strong, and utterly devoid of comfort.