Chapter 25: The New Bedmate
The cage was a cold, rigid fact. It had been on for four days straight, since the night in Brookline. Derek felt its presence with every step, a constant, plastic reminder of his new circumference. It wasn’t painful, just there, a sealed monument to what he was not.
Jake’s moving in had been effortless, a quiet colonial annexation. A duffel bag of clothes appeared in their closet, wedging Derek’s button-downs aside. A second toothbrush, electric and aggressive, now lived in the charger next to Margot’s. His citrus-and-sweat cologne colonized the bathroom air.
Derek’s mat was a thin, navy-blue camping pad from the garage, laid perpendicular to the foot of the bed. His pillow was the spare from the guest room. The geometric pattern of the wool rug bit into his cheek when he lay down.
“You don’t mind, right babe?” Jake had said that first evening, slinging a heavy arm around Margot’s shoulders. He was grinning, all white teeth and easy confidence. “Floor’s gotta be better than some of the other arrangements, yeah?”
Derek had shaken his head. “No. I don’t mind.”
He meant it. The floor was a defined space. It had rules. The bed, now, was a foreign country.
That fourth night, the sounds began above him just after midnight. The low murmur of Jake’s voice, a rough chuckle. Margot’s answering laugh, softer, more breathy than Derek had heard in years. Then the rustle of sheets, the solid, meaty thump of a pillow being adjusted.
Derek stared at the underside of the bedframe. A forgotten dust bunny trembled in the draft from the vent. He focused on it, a gray, tangled star.
The bedsprings sang a familiar, aching song. One sharp creak, then a rhythmic complaint. Uh-uh-uh-uh.
Margot moaned. It wasn’t performative. It was punched out of her, a soft, startled “Oh.” Then another. It was the sound she used to make, years ago, when they’d first dated and he could sometimes, if he concentrated desperately, last long enough to get her there. He hadn’t heard it in a decade.
“That’s it,” Jake grunted above him. His voice was strained, paternal. “Take it. God, you’re so fucking tight.”
The rhythm changed, became harder, faster. The headboard started a slow, solid thump against the wall. Thump. Thump. Thump. Derek’s own body betrayed him, a sharp, agonizing throb of blood trying to expand inside the unyielding plastic prison. It was a sickening fullness with nowhere to go, a pressurized ache that blurred his vision. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper.
The sounds built to a crescendo—slapping skin, gasped curses from Jake, a high, pleading whimper from Margot that ended in a shattered cry.
Silence. Then heavy, ragged breathing.
The scent of it washed down to him—sex, salt, Margot’s jasmine lotion mixed with Jake’s sweat.
“Jesus,” Jake breathed. “You’re a revelation.”
A low, satisfied hum from Margot. Bedsprings groaned as weight shifted.
Then her voice, clear and calm, aimed downward. “Derek.”
He flinched. “Yes?”
“Come up here.”
His muscles protested, stiff and cold. He pushed himself up to his knees, then rose. He kept his eyes lowered, but the sight still hit him like a physical blow. They were tangled in the twisted sheets, glowing in the sliver of streetlight from the window. Margot was on her back, skin sheened, her auburn hair fanned out. Jake was propped on one elbow beside her, his broad chest damp, looking at Derek with an expression of open, curious amusement.
The smell was stronger here, musky and intimate.
“Clean him up,” Margot said, nodding toward Jake. Her tone was the same as when she asked him to take out the recycling.
Derek’s mouth flooded with a saliva that tasted of panic. He hesitated for a half-second.
“Hey,” Jake said, his voice light, conversational. “Eyes on me, buddy.”
Derek’s gaze flicked up. Jake’s smirk was not cruel, just utterly assured. He was a man in his rightful place.
Derek leaned forward. The act was mechanical. His tongue was dry at first, a useless scrap of leather. He closed his eyes. The taste was bitter, saline, overwhelmingly foreign. He gagged, choked it back, and continued, a grim, utilitarian swipe.
Jake watched the entire process, his breathing steadying. “Thorough,” he commented.
“Now me,” Margot said.
Derek shifted on the bed. The sheets were damp and warm under his knees. He bent to her, his movements drugged and slow. Here the taste was different—familiar yet profoundly altered, layered with the sharp, alien note of Jake. This was the flavor of his replacement. He worked until she was clean, until she sighed and twitched away from the sensation.
“Good,” she said. She reached out and ruffled his hair, her fingers scratching his scalp the way one might pet a compliant pet. “Back to your mat now. We’re going to sleep.”
He slid off the bed. His knees hit the floor pad with a soft thud. He curled onto his side, facing away, drawing his knees up. The cage felt heavier, a leaden counterweight to the hollowness in his chest.
Above him, they settled. Margot murmured something. Jake laughed, a low rumble. The bed creaked once more as they found their positions.
Derek lay in the dark, his tongue still holding the ghost of their mingled proof. The humiliation was a cloud, diffuse and strange. But beneath it, under the ache and the salt, was that same terrifying peace he’d felt in the car from Brookline. He had performed his function. He had been useful. The bedsprings were silent. The house was still. He had his place.
He had his place. The knowledge was a cold stone in his gut, solid and anchoring. It allowed him to sleep on the thin pad, even as the whispers and laughter from the bed above continued well into the night.
A week bled by in a series of muted rituals. Derek made coffee for three in the morning. He packed Jake’s lunch alongside Margot’s, a neat turkey sandwich and a bag of chips. He folded Jake’s laundry, the unfamiliar boxer briefs large and stretched in his hands.
“You’re a natural at this, buddy,” Jake said one morning, snatching his folded shirt from the pile. His fingers brushed Derek’s hand, a casual dismissal.
Margot watched these exchanges from the kitchen island, sipping her coffee. Her green eyes were analytical, like she was assessing a finished layout. The restless energy that used to hum through her during her long showers was gone, replaced by a placid, frightening certainty.
The package arrived on a Thursday, a plain brown box left on the front porch. Margot brought it in, setting it on the glass coffee table with a decisive thud. She used a box cutter, the blade slicing through tape with a sharp, ripping sound.
Derek hovered near the hallway, waiting for an instruction. Jake was at work.
“Come here,” she said, not looking up from the box. She pulled out layers of molded gray foam, setting them aside.
The machine was heavy, gunmetal gray, and intimidatingly sleek. It had a substantial base, a mechanical arm, and a selection of sinister, silicone attachments still in sealed plastic. It looked like a piece of medical equipment, or a very specialized tool.
“What is it?” Derek asked, his voice thin.
“It’s for you,” Margot said, finally looking at him. She plugged the cord into the wall. A small, green power light glowed on the base. “It’s so you can fuck yourself. Since you clearly can’t fuck me.”
The words landed, clinical and precise. He stared at the machine, then at her. She was utterly serious.
“Strip,” she commanded, leaning back on the sofa. “And bring the lube from the nightstand. The silicone one.”
His hands trembled as he obeyed, peeling off his sweatpants and t-shirt. The cage was a stark black against his pale skin. The room was too bright, the afternoon sun glaring off the sterile surfaces of their own living room.
“On your knees. Back to it,” she directed, pointing to a spot on the rug before the coffee table. She selected a medium-sized, ridged attachment, clicking it into place on the mechanical arm with a firm snap. The sound was final.
She squeezed a generous amount of clear lube onto the silicone, the blob glistening. “Do it.”
Derek’s breath hitched. He turned, kneeling on the rough wool, presenting himself to the cold, unfeeling machine. He reached back, his fingers slick and clumsy, trying to prepare himself. The humiliation was a live wire, buzzing under his skin.
“Just get on with it,” Margot sighed, boredom edging her tone.
He guided the tip of the machine to his body. The silicone was cool, unforgiving. He pressed the power button on the remote she’d placed beside him.
It whirred to life with a low, industrial hum. The arm began a slow, insistent piston. He gasped as it pushed inside, a sharp, foreign invasion. The rhythm was relentless, perfectly regular, and utterly disconnected from any human touch.
Tears sprang to his eyes, from pain, from shame, from the sheer absurdity of it. He braced his hands on the edge of the coffee table, knuckles white. The machine fucked him with a rhythmic, punching thrust. Whirr-thump. Whirr-thump.
Margot watched, sipping a glass of water. Her expression was one of mild interest, like she was reviewing a colleague’s portfolio.
The sensation built, a traitorous heat coiling in his gut, utterly separate from his revulsion. The cage trapped his own desperate, responding hardness, making the internal pressure swell unbearably. His breaths became ragged sobs, each mechanical thrust punching a choked sound from his throat.
It was a violation delivered by proxy, and his body, stupid and base, responded. The climax tore through him, a brutal, convulsive shock that had nothing to do with pleasure. He cried out, a broken noise, as he spilled uselessly into the constricting plastic. The machine didn’t stop. It kept pumping, through the oversensitivity, through the shuddering aftershocks, until he was whimpering.
“Turn it off,” Margot said.
His shaking finger found the button. The whirring ceased. The sudden silence was louder than the machine had been. He slumped forward, forehead against the cool glass of the table, strings of saliva dripping from his lips.
“Clean it up.”
He didn’t understand at first. He was empty, shattered.
“Your mess. On the floor. Lick it up.”
He looked down. A small, milky puddle had dripped from the cage onto the pale rug. His stomach turned. He retched, dry-heaving, but nothing came up.
“Now, Derek.”
The command broke through the nausea. He lowered his head. The taste was his own, familiar yet profane in this context, mixed with the dust of the rug. He lapped at the spot until only a damp stain remained.
“Good,” Margot said. She unplugged the machine. The green light died. “You’ll do that every time I tell you to fuck yourself. Understood?”
He nodded, still on all fours, unable to meet her eyes.
“This is your function now,” she continued, her voice calm and explanatory. “You maintain the house. You facilitate my relationship. You handle your own… needs, mechanically. It’s a clean system.”
She stood, walking past him towards the kitchen. “Put the machine in the hall closet. Then start dinner. Jake likes his steak medium-rare.”
Derek listened to her footsteps fade. He slowly gathered the machine, its metal now warm from use. He carried its weight to the closet, nestling it beside the vacuum cleaner. Two appliances for cleaning. Two tools for maintenance.
He pulled on his sweatpants and went to the kitchen. He took the steaks from the refrigerator, their cold, bloody redness stark under the fluorescent light. His body ached deeply, a hollowed-out throb. He set a pan on the stove, clicked on the gas. A blue flame leapt to life, obedient and perfect.