Chapter 78: Sixth Day of Christmas
The fire had died to embers, but the stripper pole still stood in the center of the room, a stark, gleaming monument to the previous night’s madness. Rupert found himself unable to look directly at it. He pretended to read the newspaper, the words swimming before his eyes, every slight chime from the kitchen—a spoon against a cup—making his shoulders tense.
Margot hummed as she moved about, the very picture of domestic contentment. She had removed the gold bell from her piercing, she’d told him, for comfort while doing the hoovering. The absence of its sound felt, to Rupert, like the calm before a storm.
“Quiet night in, I think,” she announced, plumping the cushions on the sofa. “Just us. Cozy.”
She dimmed the main lights, leaving the room bathed in the orange glow from the hearth and the soft light of a single lamp. The pole caught the flickering light, a sliver of cold chrome in the warmth. She patted the space next to her. “Come. Sit with me. I found some interesting films.”
A low dread settled in Rupert’s stomach. He moved from his armchair to the sofa, the chastity device a familiar, burdensome weight. Margot picked up the remote and the large television screen blinked to life. She navigated through a menu he didn’t recognize.
“I subscribed to something new,” she said casually. “More… curated.”
The first video opened not with a title, but with direct, high-definition action. A suburban living room, not unlike their own. A woman in her forties, with a bright, eager smile, was surrounded by four men in open-necked shirts. They were laughing, passing her around, hands and mouths everywhere. The camera work was intimate, invasive. The sound of skin slapping, wet kisses, and the woman’s loud, performative moans filled the cozy room.
Rupert flinched. "Margot, for God's sake—"
"Shh," she murmured, snuggling into his side. Her hand came to rest on his thigh. "It's just anthropology. Look at her. She's having the time of her life."
He tried to focus on the crackling fire, on the grandfather clock's steady tick. But his eyes were dragged back to the screen. The woman was on her knees now, taking two of the men in her mouth at once, a feat of gymnastics and enthusiasm. Margot made a small, appreciative sound.
“Such energy,” she whispered.
Her fingers began to trace idle patterns on his leg, just above the knee. The contrast was grotesque—the chaotic, noisy orgy on screen, and her gentle, wandering touch. His body, trained by months of her curriculum, betrayed him. A thick, useless ache began to build behind the stainless steel cage.
The video changed. Now it was a darker dungeon setting. A masked figure in head-to-toe black latex knelt before a stern woman in leather who held a leash. The humiliation was verbal, psychological, a cascade of degrading praise. The gimp was used as a footstool, then made to lick boots clean. Margot’s hand slid higher, her thumbnail lightly scratching the inside of his thigh.
“Now that’s power dynamics,” she said thoughtfully, as if commenting on a documentary about birds. “The complete surrender of it. It’s quite beautiful, in its way.”
Rupert’s breath hitched. He remembered the harness, the pole, the witnessed submission. The line between spectator and participant in his own life felt tissue-thin.
The third video was the most unsettling. A elegant bedroom. A woman, blindfolded, lay on a silk-covered bed. An elderly man, his skin like creased parchment, was being gently guided onto her by a younger man. The scene was slow, almost tender, a stark contrast to the previous frenzy. The focus was on the woman’s reactions—the sudden intake of breath, the parting of her lips, the way her hands gripped the sheets not in resistance, but in profound, shocked acceptance.
Margot’s hand finally moved to the front of his trousers. She palmed the hard outline of the cage through the fabric, a gentle, possessive pressure. “Can you imagine?” she breathed into his ear, her voice husky. “The surprise? The feeling of a… different kind of experience?”
He was drowning in sensation. The visual onslaught, the scent of her perfume and the woodsmoke, the relentless, teasing pressure of her hand. She unbuttoned his trousers with deft efficiency.
“Here,” she said, guiding his hand. “Feel what you did to me.”
She pulled his fingers under the waistband of her soft cotton trousers, down until they met the smooth metal of the ring. It was warm from her skin. She guided his index finger to hook gently underneath it, and gave a slight, instructional tug.
A small, breathy sigh escaped her. “Mmm, yes. Just like that. You can feel it, can’t you? A little reminder. All the time.”
She began to move his hand for him, a slow, circular motion that made the ring shift against its delicate anchor. Her breathing shallowed. On screen, the blindfolded woman was arching her back, a silent cry on her lips.
Then Margot released his hand and turned her attention to him. She pushed his trousers and boxers down to his thighs, exposing the cage to the fire’s warmth. Her touch was clinical and devastating. She stroked the sealed tube of metal, tracing the lines of the lock, her fingernaintapping lightly on the steel. She traced the skin around it, where he was most sensitive, her touch feather-light, maddening.
He jerked, a helpless spasm.
“Shh,” she soothed, as if quieting a restive animal.
Her other hand came up to his chest. She pinched one of his nipples through his shirt, a sharp, bright sting that made him gasp. Then the other. A flick, then a slow, cruel twist. The pain was a brilliant counterpoint to the frustrated throb below, merging into one excruciating wave of sensation.
He was trembling, sweat beading at his temples. The videos continued to play, a silent, lurid ballet in the background now. All he could hear was the roar of blood in his ears and Margot’s quiet, controlled breathing.
She leaned in then, her face hovering inches from his. Her eyes were dark pools in the dim light, reflecting the dancing flames. She looked at him with a fierce, consuming curiosity. Then she closed the distance.
The kiss was deep, wet, and possessive. Her tongue swept into his mouth, claiming it. She tasted of red wine and the peppermint tea she’d been drinking. It was a kiss that felt like a climax in itself, a cruel parody of intimacy. Every nerve ending he possessed was screaming, focused on the points of contact: her mouth, her hands on his chest, the impossible, congested pressure in his groin.
She kissed him until he was dizzy, until he was moaning into her mouth, a low, helpless sound of utter need. She drank the sound in.
Then, slowly, she pulled away. She looked at his face—flushed, eyes wide and desperate—and smiled. It was a smile of deep, satisfied mischief. She gently pulled his clothing back into place, patting the cage once, a dismissive tap.
“There,” she said, her voice now bright and normal again, as if she’d just fetched him a fresh cup of tea. “That was nice, wasn’t it? Just a bit of fun.”
She picked up the remote and turned off the television. The sudden silence was a physical blow. The only sounds were the fire and the relentless, metronomic tick of the clock, counting the empty seconds.
She settled back against the cushions, pulling a throw blanket over her legs. “I think I’ll have an early night,” she said, yawning. “Don’t stay up too late, darling.”
She stood, kissed the top of his head, and walked out of the room, leaving him on the sofa. He sat perfectly still, imprisoned in the cozy, fire-lit room. The ache was a constant, pounding presence. The images from the screen were seared onto the back of his eyelids. Her taste was still in his mouth. His entire being was a live wire of unfinished, unfinishable arousal.
He stared at the stripper pole, gleaming in the half-light. It was no longer just a piece of equipment. It was a symbol of his new reality—a stage for performances he didn’t choose, in a life that was being carefully, creatively, and lovingly orchestrated around the central, unyielding fact of his denial. The clock ticked on, measuring a sentence whose end he could no longer envision.