Chapter 96: The Gift of Flesh
The morning sun through the kitchen window was too bright, too cheerful. It glinted off the marmalade jar and painted a hard yellow rectangle on the checked tablecloth. Rupert stared into his cooling tea, the memory of the pub’s charged atmosphere clinging to him like a second skin.
Margot slid a fresh piece of toast onto his plate. The scrape of the knife was abnormally loud. “Well?” she said, her voice light. “Christmas Eve. Decision day.”
He looked up. She was leaning against the Aga, watching him, a curl of red hair escaping its loose knot. There was no pressure in her gaze, only bright, terrifying curiosity. He thought of the pub. Of every anonymous, smiling face. He thought of Libby’s kind, December-calendar eyes, her nervous giggle at the Halloween party. He thought of the cage, its constant, lonely weight.
A part of him, the accountant part, screamed that the safe choice, the prudent choice, was to continue. To prove his dedication, to avoid the consequence. But another part, a part that had been smothered for years and was now gasping for air, roared louder.
It wanted out.
“Libby,” he said, the word dry in his throat. “I choose Libby.”
Margot’s smile widened, slow and deep. “Oh, Rupert. Good for you.” She didn’t sound disappointed. She sounded thrilled. “You know what this means for tomorrow, of course. Christmas Day. Back in the cage. And my gift.”
“The consequence,” he mumbled.
“The consequence,” she affirmed, coming over to plant a kiss on his forehead. “But tonight… tonight is yours. Or rather, Libby’s.”
The hours blurred into a nervous tapestry. He showered, Margot supervising as if he were a bridegroom. She trimmed his hair, neatened his beard, and smiled enigmatically at the green that still clung to his pubic curls. “A souvenir,” she’d whispered. She dressed him in soft, dark trousers and a crisp white shirt, no underwear. Every brush of the fabric was a whisper of what was to come, and what would be taken away.
As dusk stained the sky a deep violet, she led him to the car. “Blindfold time,” she sang, producing a simple black silk scarf.
“Is this necessary?”
“Everything is necessary,” she said, and her hands were gentle but firm as she tied it over his eyes. The world vanished, replaced by the intimate scent of her perfume and the faint, clean smell of the silk. He heard the car door open, felt her guide him into the passenger seat. The drive was a disorienting journey of turns and stops, the familiar village roads rendered strange.
He lost all sense of direction. The only anchors were the purr of the engine, the click of the indicators, and Margot’s warm hand resting on his thigh. After what felt like an age, the car crunched to a halt on gravel.
“Wait,” she said.
He heard her door open and close, then his own. The cold night air hit his face. Her hands guided him out, over the gravel, up a single step, and into sudden, enveloping warmth. The air changed. It was laden with the rich, sweet scent of cinnamon and clove, of beeswax polish, and beneath it all, a faint, floral perfume.
A door closed softly behind them.
“Hello, Libby,” Margot said, her voice cheerful in the quiet.
“Oh! You’re here!” Libby’s voice was a flutter, a soft rush of air and excitement. It came from directly in front of him. “Hello, Rupert.”
He managed a nod towards the voice. “Hello, Libby.”
“Just as we discussed,” Margot said, her tone businesslike yet playful. He felt her move behind him. Cold metal clicked around his wrists, binding them together at the small of his back. The handcuffs from the playbarn. His heart thudded against his ribs. “There. A proper present to unwrap.”
Her lips were close to his ear. Her whisper was a hot, private breeze that made him shiver. “She’s been waxed, perfumed, and waiting all month for your cock inside her. But first, she wants to unwrap you like a present.” A kiss, quick and sharp, on his cheek. “I’ll leave you love birds to it!”
He heard her footsteps retreat, the opening and closing of a distant door, and then silence. A profound, heavy silence, broken only by the crackle of a nearby fire and the frantic drum of his own pulse in his ears.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then, the softest scuff of slippers on a wooden floor. The floral scent grew stronger, mixed with the warmth of her body as she stepped close. He could feel her heat a breath away.
“Oh my,” she breathed. Her fingers, trembling slightly, touched his face. They were soft, slightly cool. They traced the line of his jaw, the blindfold’s edge, his lips. He jumped at the contact. “It’s really you. I’ve been… thinking about this.”
Her hands went to the buttons of his shirt. Each pop of a button was a tiny explosion in the quiet room. The shirt fell open, the air cool on his chest. Her fingers splayed across his pectorals, exploring the terrain of him with a hesitant curiosity that was intensely erotic.
“So lovely,” she murmured. Her hands went to his belt. The buckle clinked, the zip hissed down. He felt the trousers loosen, then pool at his feet. He stood blind and bound in the fire-warmed room, wearing only his socks and the cold, absurd chastity device.
A sharp intake of breath.
“Oh!” Libby gasped. “Margot said, but I didn’t quite… the green!” A finger, bolder now, traced the line where metal met skin, brushing the dyed hair beneath. He flinched, his whole body taut. “It’s like a little Christmas elf,” she giggled, the sound nervous and genuine. “Now, let’s see… the key…”
He heard her fumble on a nearby surface, the jingle of metal. A key slid into the lock at the base of the cage. A click. It was a sound of profound finality. The contraption loosened, and with gentle hands, she drew it away from him. The sudden, naked exposure was a shock. The fire’s heat felt different, the air a new sensation on freed skin.
Her hands returned, one circling him, tentative at first, then firm. Her other hand cupped him, warm and sure. A low moan escaped him, unbidden. It had been so long.
“There he is,” she whispered, her voice thick with awe and desire. “My Christmas present.” She tugged gently, leading him forward a few steps. “Come to bed, Rupert. Let me have a proper look at you.”
He shuffled, feet catching in his trouser legs, until his shins bumped the edge of something soft. A bed. She guided him down to sit, then knelt before him. She peeled off his socks, her movements reverent. Then her hands were on his knees, pushing them apart. He was utterly vulnerable, displayed, his bound hands forcing his chest forward.
The blindfold came off.
The light was soft, golden. He was in a bedroom draped in red and gold, dominated by a grand four-poster bed. A fire crackled in a hearth to his right. And there, kneeling on a lush rug between his feet, was Libby.
She was exactly as she was in the calendar, and yet utterly new. Her silver hair was piled loosely atop her head. She wore a deep burgundy silk robe, tied at the waist but hanging open. Beneath it, her body was revealed—softer, fuller than he’d imagined, her skin glowing in the firelight. She had, indeed, been waxed. And perfumed. The scent of jasmine and warm skin filled his nostrils.
Her eyes, wide and a little watery with emotion, travelled hungrily over his naked body, lingering on his aching, freed erection. Her lips were parted.
“My,” she said again, a world of feeling in the word. She leaned forward, her hands on his thighs, and brushed her lips against the tip of him. He jerked, a bolt of pure lightning shooting up his spine.
She looked up at him, a mischievous, hungry glint in her eyes that mirrored Margot’s, yet was entirely her own. “I’ve been a very good girl this year, Rupert,” she whispered, her breath hot against his skin. “And I’ve been waiting such a long, long time.”