Chapter 91: Encore
The energy in the studio had become a living, pulsing thing. It was in the humid air, the symphony of slap-skin and gasped profanity, the raw, salt-and-musk scent of sweat and sex. Margot, bent over the lounger with the floppy-haired lad driving into her, reached a hand back to clutch at his thigh. Her eyes, locked on the mirror, caught movement.
Jamie, recovered and watching with a dazed, renewed hunger, was kneeling on the cushions beside her head. His erection brushed her cheek. She turned, opened her mouth, and took him in without missing the rhythm of the thrusts from behind. The dual penetration was staggering. Full, stretched, utterly claimed. A wanton sound, guttural and unbidden, tore from her throat around Jamie’s flesh.
“Christ, you’re greedy,” the lad behind her grunted, his pace becoming punishing.
Margot pulled off Jamie with a wet pop, sucking in air. “And you’re… nineteen,” she gasped, pushing back against him. “Rupert needs… a map and a… sherpa to find this spot!” She took Jamie back into her mouth, her humming laugh vibrating around him.
It was a catalyst. The comparison, shouted into the lewd, shimmering room, broke some final dam of propriety. Elizabeth, from her throne on the velvet lounger, called out, “Henry requires written instructions and a week’s notice!” Her laugh was a sharp, elegant chime.
Henrietta, now on her back with Timothy between her legs, roared. “Mine just nods off and starts snoring halfway through the football highlights!”
The confessions, wrapped in jokes, fueled them. Charlie, still on all fours, her hair stuck to her glistening neck, suddenly cried out, “Mine’s been dead for seven years!” The admission, so stark and raw, silenced her for a second before the lad behind her shifted his angle and she shouted again, this time in pure, shattered pleasure.
Dolores, guiding a fresh-faced boy onto the bench beside her, murmured, “Paolo… he prefers to watch. Always did.” She said it with a wistful smile, then focused on the boy. “Mas fuerte, cariño. Don’t be shy.”
The orgy became a reclamation.
Margot lost herself in the mechanics of it. The push and pull. The taste of one, the feel of the other. Her world narrowed to the ache in her jaw and the deep, rhythmic pounding that threatened to dissolve her bones. She came violently, her screams muffled by Jamie, her body clamping down on the lad behind her who shouted and followed her over the edge.
They parted from her, spent. She slid to the floor, a puddle of silk and trembling limbs, watching as the scene began to slow. Henrietta and Timothy had collapsed in a heap of laughter and sweat. Elizabeth was meticulously wiping her lad’s chest with a discarded lace cuff. Charlie lay curled on her side, a look of profound shock softening her face. Dolores was lighting a cigarette, her other hand absently stroking the hair of the boy dozing next to her.
The lads, one by one, stumbled to their feet. The condoms were disposed of in a discreet bin. Clothes were retrieved in a haze of mutual, exhausted courtesy. There were awkward, grateful nods, dazed smiles. The rugby player helped Timothy find his mismatched socks. Jamie, pulling his shirt on, looked at Margot with something like awe. “Thanks,” he mumbled.
“Off you pop,” Henrietta said, waving a hand.
The door to the studio closed behind the last of them. The silence they left in their wake was immense, ringing. It was broken by the crack of Dolores’ cigarette lighter, the pop of a fresh champagne cork from Elizabeth.
No one spoke for a full minute. They just breathed, in the wreckage of the circular bed, amongst the displaced cushions and discarded silk.
Henrietta finally broke the silence, her voice a low, contented rumble. “Well. I can’t believe we’re actually going to do what’s coming next.”
Margot pushed herself up on her elbows. The euphoria was receding, and a cold, thrilling knot of anticipation was tightening in its place. She looked at the two-way mirror, knowing it was just glass from this side, feeling the imagined weight of a gaze behind it. Paolo. And soon, another.
“It’s the only way it makes sense,” Elizabeth said calmly, sipping champagne. “A full audit.”
Charlie sat up, hugging her knees. Her glasses were bent. “He’s going to be so… confused.”
“Good,” Margot said, the word out before she could temper it. She found her phone, discarded near the bowl of now-depleted condoms. The screen glared in the dim light.
Her thumbs hovered. The pulse in her throat was frantic. She typed slowly, each letter a commitment.
Hope you’re still up. The event’s running late. I need a little help cleaning up. Car coming to collect you in 20. Don’t dress up. Just come. M x
She showed the screen to the others. Henrietta winced in sympathy, or maybe excitement. Elizabeth gave a slow, approving blink. Dolores just smiled, exhaling a plume of smoke toward the secret mirror.
Margot pressed send.
The message whooshed away into the night. The deed was done. There was no taking it back.
In the quiet studio, surrounded by the evidence of their rebellion, the five women waited. The fire they had stoked was now a controlled burn, and they had just thrown her husband into the heart of it. The jeopardy was no longer a fantasy. It was a car, currently starting its engine in the village, making its way down the dark lane towards a man who believed he was fetching his wife from a Women’s Institute planning meeting.
Margot stood, her legs steady now. She walked to the mirror, examined her reflection—the smeared red lipstick, the wild halo of curls, the coral silk bra the last flag of her former self. She didn’t wipe the smears away.
“Right,” she said, her voice clear in the hush. “Let’s get the place looking presentable.”