Chapter 21: Wednesday night part three
The cold bathroom tiles bit into Paul’s knees, replaced by the marginally softer wood of the hallway runner. Crawling. Hands still bound wrists still bound behind him. His movements were awkward, lurching, arms useless counterweights. The Viagra kept him erect, ignored for moments in the terror, it swung heavily beneath him with each forward he crawled, a persistent humiliating reminder of trapped blood. The sour tang of urine coated his tongue, filled his sinuses. Every inhale dragged it deeper deep deep. Tears tracked paths through the dried piss on his face. His throat felt flayed raw raw from screaming.
"Ah, bon, he returns!" Odette’s voice rang out from the living room’s soft jazz competing with the jazz records’ melancholic trumpet. "See, mes chéries? A little encouragement."
Paul kept his head low, vision swimming milky uselessness. He reached the edge of the living room rug, the shift texture under his knees. He stopped, kneeling trembling, dripping humiliation still clinging to him.
"Look up, handsome," Odette commanded softly. Paul. "Hands knees. Head up. Let me see my little mess.""
Paul raised his head. Blurs resolved slightly: there were four women here. Odette, Clarissa and Nadia. The nervous one whose name he didn’t know and a final woman sitting in the corner just watching.
Paul knelt trembling on the rug’s edge, head bowed, the ammonia sting still clawing his sinuses, the phantom pressure of Clarissa’s knees heavy on his skull. Odette’s sharp clap echoed. "Right!" Her voice sliced through the lingering tension, bright and commanding. "Enough moping, Paul. You must be famished after all that...exertion." She chuckled, a light, tinkling sound utterly at odds with the dread coiling in his gut. "Time for dinner, mon chéri."
He heard the crisp rustle of paper, the delicate clink of porcelain. Odette selected a canapé – he imagined smoked salmon on rye, something elegant. The sound of her biting into it was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Chewing. Deliberate. Slow. Then, a wet, splattering sound directly onto the polished floorboards near his knees. A warm, musky scent of fish and cream cheese hit his nostrils, mingling nauseatingly with the piss still clinging to him.
"Voilà," Odette announced, her tone playful yet edged with steel. "Dinner is served, Paul. Eat up. Every morsel." She nudged the warm, wet blob closer with her toe. "Use your mouth. Hands stay bound."
Paul hesitated, humiliation burning hotter than Clarissa’s stream. He lowered his face, blind, searching. His nose brushed the wood, smelling varnish and the pungent, chewed lump. He opened his mouth tentatively, tongue extending. It touched something warm, slick, unevenly textured. He recoiled instinctively, gagging slightly.
"Oh, come on," Nadia groaned, her voice thick with derisive amusement. "It’s not that bad. Worse than Clarissa’s vintage?" Clarissa’s low chuckle answered her.
"Eat it, Paul," Odette commanded, her voice losing its lightness. "Now."
He pressed his face down again, forcing his lips around the slimy mass. He sucked at it clumsily, trying to gather it onto his tongue without hands. Bits stuck to the floor; he had to scrape them off with his teeth. The texture was revolting – half-chewed bread, gritty salmon, slick cream cheese. He swallowed convulsively, the lump dragging down his raw throat. A ragged gasp escaped him.
"Good boy!" Odette crowed, clapping again. The other women laughed – a brittle, delighted sound. "See? He manages. Who’s next? Clarissa? Something decadent?"
Clarissa’s melodic voice purred from near the sofa. "With pleasure." He heard her move, the soft tread on the rug, then the distinct sound of her selecting something. A richer, sweeter aroma bloomed – chocolate, perhaps, or pastry. Her chewing was slower, more theatrical. A thick, wet plop landed a few feet to Paul’s left. "Over here, puppy," she called, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Fetch!"
Paul turned his head blindly towards the sound. He shuffled forward on his knees, the awkward movement making his bound arms ache. He bumped into Clarissa’s leg. "Warmer," she teased, shifting slightly. He lowered his face, sniffing, tongue probing the wood until he found the new, sticky-sweet deposit. He lapped at it, gathering the chocolatey paste, the gritty crumbs of pastry. It was cloying, thick with saliva. He swallowed.
"Excellent!" Clarissa laughed. "He’s a natural scavenger."
"My turn!" Nadia declared, already moving. She chose something savoury – he smelled herbs, pastry. A quick, aggressive chew. A wet slap landed further away, near the chaise longue. "Here, boy! Come on!" Her voice was sharp, commanding, like calling a disobedient dog.
Paul crawled blindly towards her voice, knees protesting on the hard floor. He bumped the leg of the chaise. Nadia tapped her foot impatiently beside the mess. "Hurry up! It’s getting cold." He lowered his face, finding the lump – warm, herb-scented, greasy. He sucked it up messily, bits clinging to his chin. The women’s laughter crescendoed, delighted by his abject scrambling, his blind, clumsy consumption.
The nervous woman, emboldened, stepped forward. "C-can I?" she asked Odette timidly.
"Mais oui, Sophie!" Odette encouraged. "Everyone feeds the pet." Sophie selected something small – a cracker with cheese? A timid chew, then a soft plink very close to Paul. "H-here," Sophie whispered. Paul didn’t need coaxing this time. He pivoted, found the small, drier lump quickly, and sucked it clean off the floorboards with efficient, humiliated speed. Sophie giggled nervously.
The silent woman in the corner finally spoke, her voice cool and detached. "He missed a bit. By his left knee."
Paul flinched at the cool, French-accented voice. The silent observer. He hadn't even known she was that close. Instinctively, he twisted his head, his milky gaze uselessly sweeping the floorboards near his left knee. He couldn't see any missed morsel, only feel the phantom stickiness of Sophie’s cracker crumbs on his chin.
"Ah, meticulous, Sandrine!" Odette’s approving chuckle cut through the women’s fading amusement.
A soft scrape sounded as the silent woman, Sandrine, nudged the small, overlooked smear of Sophie’s regurgitated cheese with the pointed toe of her designer shoe. "There." Her voice was low, devoid of Nadia’s malice or Clarissa’s theatricality, merely stating a fact. It held a quiet authority that unnerved Paul more than a shout. He lowered his face again, nostrils flaring, searching by scent and touch. His tongue found the tiny, lukewarm patch of paste and gritty crumbs. He lapped it clean, the humiliation a fresh burn on his already ravaged nerves. The wood tasted of varnish and shame.
"Right," Sandrine stated, her tone flat. She moved with economical grace towards the low table laden with canapés. The clink of porcelain was precise. Paul sensed her selecting something, the faint scent of pâté reaching him. He braced himself.
He heard the distinct, deliberate sounds: a single, measured bite, then the rhythmic, almost silent chewing. It wasn't messy like Nadia’s or performative like Clarissa’s. It was efficient, clinical. A beat of silence followed. Then, a soft, wet thwup as a compact, dense globule landed directly onto the polished floor near her own feet. She hadn't thrown it far like the others.
"Now," Sandrine commanded, her French accent crisp. She didn't call him 'puppy' or 'handsome'. She simply pointed her toe towards the mess she’d made. "Here."
Paul crawled the short distance towards her expensive shoes. The scent of leather and pâté mingled. He lowered his head, anticipating the familiar scrape of tongue on wood. But Sandrine moved.
With startling speed, she hooked one foot out of its stiletto. Her bare foot descended. She planted it directly on top of the chewed pâté, grinding it deliberately into the floorboards with her toes. A soft, wet squelch sounded. She pressed down, twisting slightly.
"Not there," she corrected, her voice unchanged. Her foot lifted, revealing the pâté smeared heavily between her toes, glistening obscenely under the lamplight. She held it suspended a few inches above the mess.
Paul froze. This was a new tier. The ammonia still stung his nose, the chewed food sat heavy in his belly, and now this. The intimacy of it, the sheer, degrading closeness. Odette’s delighted intake of breath was audible.
The pâté, thick and salty-smelling, oozed between her toes. Paul hesitated. A lifetime of ingrained manners warred with the abyss he’d already plunged into. Sandrine wiggled her toes slightly.
He leaned forward. The scent of pâté, leather, and the faint smell of patent leather shoes filled his senses. He extended his tongue, tentative at first, touching the tight skin near her arch. A salty, meaty tang, mixed with the flavour of the floor and her unique musk, coated his taste buds. He flinched but didn't pull back.
Sandrine didn't move. He lapped upwards, his tongue sliding along the sensitive sole of her foot. She remained perfectly still, a statue observing an insect. He found the mashed pâté concentrated between her big toe and the next. He pressed his tongue firmly into that crevice, gathering the dense paste. It required effort, his jaw aching. He sucked gently, pulling the mixture free, swallowing the thick, gritty pulp. He cleaned meticulously between each toe, his face pressed against her instep, the humiliation a palpable, suffocating blanket. He could feel the faint tremor in her calf muscle, the only sign she registered his touch at all.
Odette clapped her hands together once, a sharp, decisive sound. "Bravo, Paul!
Odette’s sharp clap echoed in the sudden quiet. "Bravo, Paul! Très bien!" Her approval felt like a branding iron on his raw nerves. Sophie shifted uncomfortably near the chaise, her voice hesitant in the dim glow. "Odette... look at him. He’s... broken." She gestured vaguely at Paul’s trembling form. "Filming this... it feels too far now."
Odette’s laugh was a bright, dismissive chime. "Trop tard, ma petite Sophie!" She crouched beside Paul, her small hand gripping his chin, forcing his milky gaze upwards. Her perfume, usually intoxicating, now choked him. "Non. This?" She swept her other hand around the room, encompassing the chewed food smears, the lingering piss stench, her phone propped nearby. "This is Paul’s gift. His dignity, placed in my hands. Freely given." Her green eyes pinned him, sharp as glass shards. "Tell her, Paul. Tell Sophie this is what you want."
Paul’s numbness cracked. A shudder ripped through him, violent and uncontrollable. The dam holding back the terror, the humiliation, the sheer weight of his own shattered self, burst. Sobs erupted, harsh, ugly gasps tearing from his raw throat. Tears flooded down his face, mixing with dried piss and the salty tang of Sandrine’s foot. "I... I..." he rasped, words dissolving into wet choking. "I love you, Odette!" The confession ripped out, raw and desperate. "All of me... it's yours. A gift. Please... take it. If this... if this is what you want... it’s what I want too." He slumped forward, forehead pressing into the rug, shoulders heaving with the force of his weeping.
Odette’s fingers tightened on his chin, a predator claiming its prize. A slow, satisfied smile curved her lips. "Parfait." She straightened, her gaze sweeping to Clarissa, who lounged against the mantelpiece, a predatory stillness about her. "What I want, chérie," Odette declared, her voice smooth as velvet over steel, "is for you to indulge yourself. Fully. With his body." She nudged Paul’s limp shoulder with her toe. "He’s quite ready."
Clarissa pushed off the mantelpiece with languid grace. The soft click of her heels on the wood floor carried a chilling finality. She stopped directly in front of Paul’s bowed head. Her expensive perfume, a dark floral, momentarily overpowered the room's other stenches. "Stand him up," she commanded Nadia, her melodic voice devoid of warmth. "Against that wall. Hands stay bound." She turned her gaze back to Odette, a cruel spark in her eyes. "Everything so far has been just the warm-up act, darling." Clarissa’s manicured hand drifted towards the buckle of her elegant silk trousers. "Lovely words, Paul. Let’s see how well you scream."
Nadia hauled Paul upright, his bound arms wrenching his shoulders. Sophie, eyes wide but following Nadia’s lead, grabbed his other elbow, pushing him stumbling backwards until his spine hit the cool plaster wall near Odette’s velvet chaise. The discarded dildo lay ignored near the ottoman. Clarissa’s fingers finally released her sleek leather belt with a sharp snick. She slid it free from her trousers, the supple length whispering against the silk. The buckle dangled, cold and heavy. "Hands up," she instructed Nadia flatly. Nadia grabbed Paul’s bound wrists, hauling them high above his head, pinning them roughly against the wall. His chest was exposed, vulnerable. Sophie instinctively ducked away from the potential arc.
Clarissa didn't hesitate. She stepped back, measured the distance, and swung. The belt cracked across his upper chest, a searing line of fire igniting instantly. Paul gasped, a raw, involuntary sound ripped from his throat. The shock of it stole his breath before the deep, stinging pain bloomed. "Ooh, that woke him up!" Nadia crowed, tightening her grip on his wrists. Odette watched from her perch on the chaise arm, sipping champagne, a small, feline smile playing on her lips. Sandrine observed impassively by the window.
Again. Lower this time. The belt sliced across his ribs. Paul cried out, a harsh yelp, twisting futilely against Nadia’s hold. Tears sprang anew, hot against his piss-stained cheeks. "Louder, Paul," Clarissa murmured, her voice chillingly calm. She adjusted her grip. "Let’s hear it properly." The third lash landed diagonally, crossing the first two stripes. He screamed, the sound ragged, echoing the jazz trumpet’s mournful wail. The welts rose immediately, angry red lines etched onto his pale skin. "Pretty pattern," Nadia commented, almost admiringly.
"Your turn, Nadia," Clarissa said, offering the belt handle first. "Show me that technique we’ve been working on."
Nadia snatched the belt eagerly, shoving Sophie towards Paul’s legs. "Hold him still down there, Soph!" Sophie flinched but knelt, wrapping her arms clumsily around Paul’s trembling thighs. Nadia didn’t bother with preamble. She swung hard and fast. Crack! High on his left shoulder. Crack! Across his hip bone. Crack! Low on his belly, just above the waistband of his trousers. Her blows were brutal, less precise than Clarissa’s, driven by a crude energy. Paul writhed, sobbing openly, his body jerking against his captors with each impact. Sophie clung tighter, her face pale but determined under Nadia’s command.
"Odette?" Clarissa prompted, her eyes glinting. "Care to leave your mark?"
Odette set her champagne flute down with a delicate clink. She rose, smoothing her skirt, and took the belt from Nadia. She studied Paul for a moment, taking in the streaked tears, the reddening welts, his raw, open-mouthed panting. "Poor Paul," she cooed, stepping close enough for him to smell her perfume over the sweat and ammonia. Her small hand traced a welt on his chest, making him flinch violently. "But mon chéri, you did say it was all mine." She stepped back, her playful tone hardening. "Hold him tightly."
She swung with surprising force. The belt snapped across his pectoral muscle, precisely avoiding his nipple but biting deep. He howled. Another landed diagonally across his lower back. A third, lighter but stinging, flicked the sensitive skin of his inner arm. "Just a little kiss from me," she smiled, handing the belt back to Clarissa. Sophie looked queasy but didn’t release her grip on his legs. Sandrine remained a silent silhouette.
"Sophie," Clarissa’s melodic voice held a command. "Your turn. Prove you’re not just decoration." Sophie froze, eyes wide with panic, still clutching Paul’s legs. "I... I..."
"Now, Sophie," Odette added softly, the threat implicit. "Don’t disappoint."
Trembling, Sophie released Paul’s legs and stood, wiping her hands nervously on her dress. She took the heavy belt with obvious reluctance. She looked at Paul’s ravaged torso, then squeezed her eyes shut and swung wildly. The blow landed weakly, near his hip. It stung but lacked the force of the others. "Pathetic," Nadia scoffed. "Put some fucking back into it, you mouse!"
Encouraged by cruelty, Sophie opened her eyes, her jaw tightening. She gripped the belt tighter, swung back, and landed a solid crack across Paul’s upper thigh. He grunted, bucking. She hit him again, lower on the same leg, then a final, desperate swipe across his side. "Done!" she gasped, dropping the belt like it was hot and retreating quickly to the chaise, looking faintly nauseous but vindicated. Clarissa retrieved the belt, testing its weight.
"Now," Clarissa stated, her voice dropping into a colder register. "The finale. Nadia, Sophie, hold his shoulders, face down." Nadia moved with efficient brutality, roughly yanking Paul to his knees, Sophie, spurred by Nadia’s glare, pushed Paul forward face-first onto the thick living room rug near the ottoman. Nadia pinned his hips down with her knee, gripping his bound wrists which were now trapped beneath his chest. Sophie threw her weight across his shoulders, pressing his face into the rug’s weave, muffling his sobs. His bare buttocks and upper thighs were exposed, pale except for the existing welts. The Viagra-induced erection, incongruous and persistent, pressed against the rug.
Clarissa stood over him, the belt hanging loose. She let the silence build, broken only by Paul’s ragged, muffled breathing. Then she raised her arm high. The belt whistled through the air. CRACK! The first lash bit deep across the fleshiest part of his buttocks. A muffled scream tore into the rug, his body arching violently against Nadia and Sophie’s holds. CRACK! The second landed just below, overlapping the first, the pain blinding, electric. He convulsed, a strangled sob escaping. Clarissa paused, letting the agony blossom fully. Nadia grunted, shifting her knee to hold him harder. "Fuck, he’s strong," she muttered.
Clarissa raised the belt one final time. She put her entire body into it, a sharp twist of her hips. CRACK! The third lash landed with brutal precision, lower still, across the sensitive crease where buttock met thigh. The sound was like a gunshot in the room. Paul’s scream was pure, animal agony, his body going rigid before collapsing, limp and shuddering. Three distinct, raised welts, livid purple-red, stood out starkly against his skin, already swelling.
Clarissa tossed the belt aside onto the chaise. She crouched beside Paul’s prone form, her fingers tracing the edge of the final, brutal welt. He flinched away with a weak moan. "There," she said, her voice cool and detached. Nadia and Sophie cautiously released him, stepping back. "Those three," Clarissa continued, tapping the deepest welts, "are souvenirs. They’ll stay sore for days. Every time you sit down at your fancy barrister’s desk, Paul," she leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear, "you’ll remember exactly where you were tonight. Who owns you."