Chapter 87: Hands Free
The front door slammed with a cheerful brutality. Margot’s laughter preceded her, a rich, wine-warmed sound that filled the hall and curled into the living room where Rupert still sat, stunned and oil-slick on the rug.
“Rupert? Darling, I’m home!”
She appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed, eyes brilliantly alive. The pub’s chill still clung to her coat, but beneath it, the emerald top seemed to glow with its own heat. She surveyed him—naked, crumpled, the firelight dancing over the dark metal cage—and her smile widened into something possessive and terribly pleased.
“Oh, good,” she purred. “Ingrid’s work is evident. You look beautifully untethered.” She shrugged off her coat, let it fall in a heap. From her oversized handbag, she produced a familiar set of items: black leather cuffs, a matching collar, all from Julia’s collection. The metal fittings gleamed.
“Up you get,” she said, her tone leaving no room for debate.
He rose, his body moving with a strange, liquid grace imposed by Ingrid’s ministrations. She approached, the leather soft in her hands. First, the collar. It settled around his neck with a quiet, definitive click. The weight of it was psychological, an anchor. Then, one wrist, and the other, fastened behind his back. The restraint pulled his shoulders back, arched his spine slightly. He was utterly presented.
“Lovely,” Margot whispered, running a finger down his sternum. “Now. Upstairs. Slowly.”
He ascended, her following closely, her breath on his neck. Their bedroom felt like a stage. The velvet curtains of the four-poster were drawn back, the sheets crisp and waiting. Margot guided him to the foot of the bed.
“Kneel.”
He sank onto the rug. She stood over him, a deity in a short skirt. With a deliberate slowness, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her thong and edged it down her thighs. The black lace peeled away, revealing the neat thatch of copper curls beneath. She stepped out of it, then, with a mischievous lift of her foot, placed her instep on his shoulder.
“You know what to do,” she said. “Mouth only. Pick it up.”
He bent forward, his nose brushing her calf. The scent of her, musky and complex from her evening out, flooded him. He grasped the fragile scrap of fabric with his teeth, lifting it. It was damp, warm. He held it like an offering.
“Good boy. Now… the main event.”
She shifted, planting her feet wider apart on either side of his knees. Her hands came to rest on his head, not forcing, but guiding. “Warm me up, darling. It’s chilly out.”
He needed no further instruction. He buried his face in her, his tongue finding the familiar, beloved terrain. She was swollen, eager. The taste was different tonight—sharp with wine, layered with her own natural salt, and beneath it, a faint, tantalizing trace of something else. His mind, hazy with submission, tried to place it. He laved and probed, losing himself in the rhythm of her responding sighs, the gradual clenching of her thighs against his ears.
“Oh, yes,” she moaned, her fingers tightening in his hair. “Just like that. Such a talented tongue.”
He felt her reach for something on the bedside table. A familiar, low hum joined the room’s atmosphere. The Hitachi wand. She let it rest against her lower belly, the vibration a deep thrum he could feel through his own skull. Her hips began a slow, grinding roll against his face.
“But you know,” she said, her voice conversational even as it tightened with pleasure, “I’ve been thinking. About the other night. At Agnes’s.”
He went still, his tongue frozen.
“Don’t stop,” she commanded, pushing his head back in. He obeyed, mechanically now. The memory of that dark hallway, the pungent, unfamiliar flavor, crashed over him.
“That was a freshly fucked pussy you licked clean, wasn’t it?” Her words were breathy, punctuated by the wand’s persistent buzz. “So juicy. So… used. You suspected then, I think. You’re a clever boy, really.”
She shifted the wand, angling it. Her free hand tugged his head lower, guiding his mouth backwards, over sensitive, wrinkled skin. “Here,” she breathed. “Lick here now. While I use this.”
The command was devastating. He obeyed, the intimate, taboo act merging with the hum of the toy and the scent of her arousal. It was a total surrender.
“The mystery of it,” Margot mused, her voice straining as pleasure built. “Whose perfect, quivering cunt was that? Julia’s? Felicity’s? Little Bethany from the bakery? She’s always looking at you with cow eyes.” A gasp. “And whose cock was doing the fucking? Henry’s? Paolo’s? That farrier with the enormous hands?”
Each name was a lash. Each image, a barbed hook in his mind. He worked his tongue, the dual sensations of her body and her words driving him to a frenzy of helpless excitement.
“You’ll never know,” she panted. “Not for certain. It’s your little ghost, Rupert. A taste you’ll carry forever. A secret pussy. A secret cock.”
Her body seized. The hand in his hair became a vise. A low, guttural cry tore from her as the orgasm rolled through her, muscles fluttering against his mouth, her juices slick on his chin. The wand’s hum dropped to a idle purr.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of her ragged breathing. Then, she stumbled back, collapsing onto the edge of the bed, legs splayed. She looked down at him, utterly debauched, her eyes soft with satiation and dark with unresolved schemes.
She reached out and uncuffed his hands. The blood rushed back with a prickling ache. She left the collar on.
“You did so well,” she said, pulling him up to sit beside her. She traced the line of his jaw, smearing her own wetness. “Such a good husband. Learning his lessons.”
She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. Her whisper was a silken threat, a promise.
“Libby is coming for tea tomorrow. Four o’clock. She’s bringing her portable barre. She wants to assess your… flexibility.” Margot kissed his cheek. “I do hope you’ve been stretching.”