Chapter 79: Swans a Swimming
The chastity device had become a second skin, a cold, factual presence that Rupert moved with, slept with, lived with. The frantic ache from the night by the fire had settled into a constant, low-grade hum, a background radiation in his body. When Margot announced a trip to the newly refurbished village swimming pool and spa, he clutched at the normality of it.
“An early evening session,” she said, folding a towel. “Just what we need. Very relaxing.”
She handed him his swim bag as they parked. It felt suspiciously light. Inside, he found only a small, black scrap of fabric. He held it up. It was a swim thong, a mere triangle of Lycra with strings at the hips. He stared at it, then at her.
“Margot, I can’t wear this.”
“Of course you can,” she smiled, pulling her own bag onto her shoulder. “It’s what I packed. The regular trunks are in the wash. Don’t be a prude, Rupert. It’s just a bit of fun.”
The changing room was empty, echoing with the drip of showers. He put it on, the feeling absurd and exposing. The black fabric did little to conceal the bulge of the cage, instead framing it, making its outline unmistakable. He wrapped a towel tightly around his waist and shuffled out, his bare feet slapping on the wet tiles.
The pool area was a cathedral of chlorine-scented steam, the vast windows showing a sky bruising with sunset. The water glowed a brilliant, artificial blue. And standing, sitting, and lounging around it were the women of the Women’s Institute.
Any hope of a quiet, awkward dip evaporated.
Gone were the sensible one-pieces and floral swim-caps. They were all, to a woman, wearing fragments of bikinis so small they seemed like afterthoughts. Wicked Weasel, Margot had called them once, showing him a website. He’d thought it a joke. Here was the joke, made flesh.
Agnes, from her rose garden, wore a hot pink number that showcased her surprisingly taut thighs. She waved from the hot tub, a glass of what looked like champagne in her hand. Ingrid, the tantric yoga teacher, was stretched out on a lounger in a string bikini the colour of moss, her limbs lean and relaxed. Henrietta’s voluptuous form was poured into a red polka-dot set that strained heroically. Libby, Georgina, Felicity, Charlie, Brenda—all transformed from figures in a charitable calendar into a tableau of confident, mature sexuality.
Margot stood at the edge of the pool in a tiny emerald green bikini, her curls piled high. She beamed. “Surprise! I booked it for a private WI wind-down. Isn’t it lovely?”
Rupert froze, his grip on the towel terminal. The cage felt like a neon sign between his hips.
“Come on in, the water’s glorious!” Henrietta called, her laughter bouncing off the glass roof.
“Let the poor man get his bearings, Hen,” said Georgina, adjusting the strap of her navy blue bikini. She gave Rupert a smile that was both kindly and appraising. “You look a bit peeky, dear. The sauna will sort you out.”
It was a conspiracy of normalcy. They chatted about village gossip, the upcoming cake sale, the state of the parish roof, all while sipping drinks and lounging in microscopic attire. Rupert lowered himself into the water, the thong becoming virtually invisible when wet, doing nothing to hide the metal contraption. He stayed chest-deep, clinging to the edge near the steps.
Agnes paddled over. “That’s quite a tan line you’re working on, Rupert. Or a lack-of-tan line.” She winked, her eyes sharp behind her steaming glasses.
After what felt like an eternity, Margot clapped her hands. “Sauna time! Everyone in.”
The sauna was a cedar-lined cube, already hazy with heat. The women filed in, a blur of glowing skin and bright fabric. The air grew thick with the scent of sweat, coconut oil, and eucalyptus. Rupert found a corner on the lowest bench, trying to make himself small.
It was impossible.
The heat amplified every sensation. The metal of the cage grew warm, then almost uncomfortably hot against his skin. The thin Lycra of the thong clung, plastered and revealing.
“Oh, it’s roasting,” sighed Felicity, fanning herself. She was next to him, her solid, farmer’s thigh pressing against his. She smelled of clean hay and heat.
“Here, Rupert, pass the water,” Libby said, leaning forward. As he handed the plastic bottle, her fingers brushed his, then lingered for a beat too long.
A slow, playful torture began. Ingrid, on the bench above, let her foot dangle. Her toes, painted a earthy brown, traced an absent-minded pattern on his shoulder. “You carry so much tension here,” she murmured, her voice a hypnotic drone. “You must learn to breathe into it.”
Charlie, quiet and bespectacled, simply watched him, her eyes dark in the gloom, a small smile on her lips.
Then Brenda, the young baker, slid onto the bench beside him, displacing Felicity. Her skin was flushed a perfect pink. “I overdid it on the sunbed,” she confessed, her voice cheerful. “My back is stinging.” She turned, presenting the smooth expanse of her shoulders to him. “Could you just… put some of this on me?” She handed him a tube of aloe vera gel.
His hands were clumsy. He squeezed the cool gel onto her skin, the action horrifically intimate. She sighed with relief as he spread it, his fingers sliding over the warm, soft skin of her back. He was intensely aware of every woman in the room, watching, or pretending not to.
“Lower,” Brenda murmured, arching slightly. “Yes, just there.”
Georgina chuckled from across the room. “Getting a good workout, Rupert?”
The heat, the touch, the blatant, laughing scrutiny was overwhelming. He was painfully, obviously erect within the cage, the rigid outline impossible to disguise in the wet thong. A bead of sweat traced a path from his temple down his chest.
Margot watched it all from the top bench, a queen observing her court. She took a slow sip of water, her eyes meeting his. They sparkled with pure, unadulterated mischief.
“You know what this reminds me of?” Henrietta boomed, breaking the tense silence. “That Swedish film we watched at book club. All that steam and suppressed passion.” She laughed, a great, hearty sound. “Much more fun in real life, though, isn’t it?”
After an age, they filed out, one by one, into the shock of the cool air. Rupert was the last to leave, needing a moment to compose himself, to will the blood away from his trapped, aching flesh. It was useless.
In the shower area, the communal, open-plan design offered no respite. He stood under a jet of cold water, back to the room, but he could feel glances like physical touches. As he dried off, wrestling with the tiny towel that barely covered him, he saw Agnes talking to Margot by the lockers.
Agnes nodded towards him, her voice carrying in the tiled space. “You’re a lucky woman, Margot. Keeping a man on his toes… and everything else.” She gave a raspy, knowing chuckle. “Very imaginative.”
Margot linked her arm through Rupert’s as they walked back to the car, the night air cool on his feverish skin. “See?” she said softly, her voice full of affection. “Relaxing. A bit of fun with the girls. Nothing to worry about.”
He got into the passenger seat, the thin car upholstery feeling abrasive. He was a tightly coiled spring of frustration, humiliated, aroused, and utterly seen. The memory of a dozen pairs of eyes in the steam, the casual brush of hands, the knowing smiles—it was a different, more public kind of exposure than the private theatre of their living room.
Margot started the engine, humming a tune from the radio. She reached over and patted his knee, her hand warm and possessive. “You did ever so well,” she said. “They all think you’re a marvel. A good sport.”
He stared out the window at the darkening village, the cozy lights in the windows of houses that now felt like stages for unseen performances. The cage was a padlock. The thong was a costume. And he was beginning to understand that in Margot’s production, he was no longer in the audience, or even a supporting actor. He was the main attraction, and the show, it seemed, was going on tour.