Chapter 67: Chapter 67
The multi-storey carpark smelled of damp concrete and exhaust fumes, a grey cathedral of empty bays and buzzing fluorescent light. Odette had chosen a Friday evening for this, when the offices above were locked and the spaces were all but deserted. She stood beside Paul's car, her arms crossed, watching the entrance ramp with a stillness that betrayed her excitement.
Paul shifted from foot to foot beside her. He had not been told much, only that Clarissa's associate would collect him and that Odette would remain behind. The ambiguity had kept his cock half hard in his trousers since they parked.
"You are nervous," Odette said, not looking at him.
"A little."
"Good."
The sound of an engine approaching echoed off the concrete. A low black hatchback swung around the corner and pulled into the bay beside them, engine cutting with a sharp click. Puddles stepped out.
Paul had seen her in intimate detail at the Tanners Arms, in the chaos of that night, eaten her out, fucked her, been tortured alongside her. Now she wore a grey athleisure suit of some impossibly thin material that clung to every plane of her body. The stubble of her shaved head was dull under the harsh lights. The suit left nothing to interpretation: her nipples stood out clearly, the metal bars through them visible in sharp relief, and between her legs the faint seam of her labia and the glint of jewellery pressed against the fabric. The tattoos that covered her arms and neck rose into goosebumps on her pale skin.
She did not speak. She walked directly to Paul and stopped a foot from him, and he caught the smell of her, sweat and leather and the faint musky tang of her cunt. Her eyes were pale grey and utterly flat.
Odette watched, her lips parted.
Puddles reached down. Her hand slid into the gusset of the leggings, fingers working, and when she withdrew them she held a small silicone dildo, slick with her juices, no more than four inches long and slender. She held it up to Paul's face.
He looked at Odette. She nodded once, a small serpentine smile on her mouth.
Paul opened his lips. Puddles pressed the dildo against them and he took it into his mouth, tasting her warmth, the faint salt of her arousal coating his tongue. It was the single most familiar taste in his life these days.
Puddles produced a roll of silver duct tape from her pocket. She tore off a strip and pressed it across his mouth, sealing the dildo in place. The tape pulled at the corners of his lips. The dildo rested heavy on his tongue, and he could not have spat it out if he tried.
She worked quickly. Her hands moved over him without ceremony, unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it from his shoulders. He lifted his arms to help, and she rewarded him with nothing, no smile, no acknowledgement. She stripped his trousers and boxers down his legs and he stepped out of them, naked in the cold grey air of the carpark, his cock already stiff and bobbing against his belly.
Odette picked up his discarded clothes and folded them over her arm. Her eyes travelled down his body and lingered on his erection. She said nothing.
Puddles took his wrists and pulled them together behind his back. Another strip of tape wound around them several times, tight enough that he felt the blood pulse in his fingers. She pushed him toward the back of the car.
It occurred to him then what was about to happen. The boot was open; Puddles had popped it before getting out. A bare metal space, a spare tyre cover, a faint smell of rubber.
He looked at Odette again, a question in his eyes over the tape.
She stepped closer and ran a hand down his cheek. "I’ve spoken to Clarissa," she said softly. "She knows what I want."
Puddles gripped his shoulder and pushed. He bent, awkward with his hands bound behind him, and she guided him into the boot, folding him into a ball. The space was tight. His knees came up toward his chest. The lid slammed down over him and darkness swallowed him whole.
The engine started. The car reversed, turned, and drove away.
Odette stood alone in the quiet carpark, Paul's clothes heavy over her arm. She lifted his jacket to her face and breathed in his scent. Her heart was hammering.
She had done it. She had handed him over to one of Clarissa's people. For a weekend.
She walked back to her own car and sat in the driver's seat for a long moment, his shirt clutched in her hands. Then she started the engine and drove home, and tried not to imagine the shape of his body folded in that dark metal space, the tape over his mouth, the stranger's juices on his tongue.
The darkness was absolute, a thick, velvet pressure against his eyes. The tape across his mouth was slick with saliva, the dildo a hard, familiar weight on his tongue. He could taste Puddles still, the faint metallic tang of her mixed with the plastic taste of the silicone. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat that seemed loud in the silent, enclosed space.
The car moved smoothly, the engine a low, continuous hum. Paul felt every vibration through the hard metal floor, every bump transmitted through the chassis into his curled, aching body. His knees were pressed against his chest, his bound hands crushed between his back and the cold wall of the boot. The position was agony, a slow, grinding torture of muscle and joint.
He tried to find a rhythm, a way to settle into the discomfort. The wooshing sound of constant speed told him they were on a motorway, a long, monotonous stretch of tarmac. He counted the seconds, then the minutes, but time seemed to stretch and distort in the darkness. He closed his eyes, though it made no difference, and tried to slow his breathing.
The dildo in his mouth was a constant, intrusive presence. He could not swallow properly, the saliva pooling in his throat and forcing him to concentrate on the act of breathing through his nose. He focused on the smell of the boot: rubber, oil, a faint trace of some chemical cleaner. It was grounding in a way, an anchor in the sensory void.
Eventually, exhausted by the tension, by the fear and the strange, humming excitement that had kept him hard for the first part of the journey, he felt his mind begin to drift. The vibrations of the car became a lullaby of sorts, and he slipped into a restless, uncomfortable doze.
He dreamed of Odette. She was standing in a garden, wearing a pale blue dress, laughing. But when he tried to reach her, she faded, and he was left alone in a grey, formless space.
He woke with a start. The car was slowing, the engine note dropping. The smooth, rushing sound of the motorway was gone, replaced by the sound of the car negotiating bends, the tyres gripping uneven surfaces. He felt the car turn, then turn again, the movement of the boot swinging him against the hard interior.
The road became rougher. Paul felt the jolts through his spine, each one sending a fresh spike of pain through his cramped limbs. His legs had gone numb, pins and needles prickling along his thighs. The tape around his wrists was biting into his skin, and he could feel the circulation being slowly cut off from his hands.
Then, beneath the wheels, a new sound: the crunch of gravel. The car slowed to a crawl, bumping along the loose stones, and Paul felt his stomach clench with a fresh surge of adrenaline. This was it. They had arrived.
The car stopped. The engine cut out. Silence descended, heavy and complete, broken only by the faint ticking of the cooling engine and the beating of Paul's own heart.
He heard a door open, then close. Footsteps on gravel, approaching the back of the car.
Paul lay frozen in the darkness, every sense straining toward the sounds outside. He heard the gravel crunch under footsteps, and he braced himself for the boot to open, for the flood of light and cold air. Instead, the whole car shifted on its suspension as a door opened and someone climbed into the passenger seat. Another door opened on the driver's side, and a second weight settled into the car, closer to him, separated only by the folded rear seat.
The doors closed with soft thuds. Silence for a moment, then the rustle of fabric, the click of a seatbelt.
Two female voices began to speak, and Paul realised with a start that he could hear them with surprising clarity. The folded seats must have left nothing but thin upholstery between him and the cabin, and the women were making no effort to lower their voices. They spoke as if they were alone.
"Oh, thank God, that traffic was a nightmare. I thought we'd never get here." The voice was posh, cut-glass, with the particular music of an Indian accent overlaid with the polish of an English public school. "Puddles, darling, you look absolutely wrecked. In a good way. Did you drive all the way up from London like that?"
"Straight through," Puddles said, and Paul heard her voice clearly now, answering from the driver's seat. "I had another collection to make. He’s in the boot."
There was a pause. Paul's heart hammered.
"Really?" The second voice was middle-class English, warmer, with a sly curl of amusement in it. "Clarissa said you'd be bringing a surprise. We had no idea he'd be packaged so... efficiently."
"We mustn’t peek," the posh voice added. "Clarissa specifically said we weren't to open the boot until we arrived." Paul heard a shift of fabric, a hand sliding across the back of the seat toward him. He tensed, but no latch clicked. "Tell us about him. Is he as presentable as Clarissa said?"
Puddles grunted. "Tall. English. Handsome in a boring way. Good manners."
"Manners," the posh voice repeated, savouring the word. "I do like manners. So many of the ones we get are rough. Not that rough doesn't have its uses."
"Clarissa says he's been trained," the English voice said. "Thoroughly trained. By a possessive little Frenchwoman who watches him like a hawk. Do you know Odette? Petite thing, pixie hair, looks like she could break your heart with a smile?"
"I know her," Puddles said.
Paul felt his cock stir in the darkness, despite the cramp in his legs, despite the tape cutting into his wrists. They were talking about him as if he were a piece of equipment, a new appliance being assessed before purchase. The strangeness of it, the sheer bizarre normality of their chat, made his head spin.
"But, now listen, Puddles, what should we do to you first?” the English voice said, and the tone shifted, dropping into something low and hungry. "We've had all week to think about it. I want to try that thing we discussed, the one with the clamp and the ice. I brought the clamps. I've got it all in my bag."
"You'll do that to me while I'm tied to the bench, I suppose," Puddles said, and there was a note of contentment in her voice, the satisfaction of a slave discussing her own menu. "You'll have me spread out, legs in the stirrups, and you'll put the clamp on my clit until I'm screaming for it."
"Until you're begging, Puddles. There's a difference."
"Then I want to open you up," the posh Indian voice said, and Paul heard her breathe out slowly, almost reverently. "I want to see how many of those glass plugs you can take before your cunt is gaping like a cave. I've got them in graduated sizes. I want to watch you stretch."
"And then," the English voice cut in, "I want to turn you over and work on that arsehole of yours. I know how much you love having it stretched. I brought the speculum. The small one. I want to see inside you, Puddles. I want to look at your pink little hole and decide exactly what to put in it next."
Puddles voice was blank she said as if reciting. "Yes. Please mistresses.”
Paul lay in the boot, his face pressed against the cold metal, his mouth stretched around the dildo, and listened. His cock was painfully hard now, a rock against his belly, and the tape around his wrists was the only thing keeping him from touching himself. The women's words painted vivid pictures in his head, images of Puddles spread out and tortured with a kind of loving, systematic cruelty. He had eaten Puddles out that night, had felt her cunt against his mouth, had known her as a fellow servant, writhing and moaning under the same hands that had tormented him. The thought of her stretched open, pierced, screaming on the bench while these two women worked her over, was horrifying. It was also the most arousing thing he had ever heard.
"Oh, I nearly forgot," the English voice said, and Paul heard her shift, heard the creak of a seat as she turned to face Puddles. "You said there was a new toy in the boot. Tell us about him. Properly. Is he really as good as Clarissa makes out?"
"He's a pussy licker," Puddles said flatly. "Trained, like I said. He's eaten out more women in the past few months than most men manage in a lifetime. His owner taught him well. He's obedient. He'll kneel for hours if you let him. He doesn't complain. He cleans up after himself."
"Cleans up," the posh voice repeated, and Paul heard the smile in it. "I like that. I like a man who isn't squeamish about where his face goes."
"He's not squeamish," Puddles said. "I experienced him myself. When Clarissa's had him at the Tanners Arms. He went down on me. He made me cum against instructions so that my mistress got to punish me."
There was a beat of silence, then both women laughed, a low, appreciative sound.
"He's probably hard as a rock. They always are."
Paul felt the heat rise in his face. She knew. Of course she knew. She had left the dildo in his mouth, had sealed it there with tape, and driven him for hours while he lay in the dark with her juices swirling on his tongue. And now she was telling these two women exactly how he was reacting, laying him bare before them without a single flicker of interest.
"Should we let him out?" the English voice asked. "I want to see what we're working with. I want to look him in the eye while he kneels at my feet. I want to tell him exactly what I'm going to do to him this weekend and watch his face when he hears it."
The car shifted again as one of the women leaned forward. Paul heard the driver's door open, the rustle of Puddles climbing out onto the gravel. The passenger door opened too, and a waft of cold night air reached him through the boot's seams, bringing with it the smell of pine and damp earth.
"I want him on his knees within the hour," the English voice said, and Paul heard her footsteps crunch across the gravel, moving away from the car. "I want his face between my thighs before dinner. If he's as good as Clarissa says, he'll earn himself a meal."
"And if he isn't?" the posh voice asked.
"Then he can go hungry."
The voices faded as the women walked toward whatever house lay beyond the gravel. The car door slammed shut, and Paul was alone again in the darkness, his heart pounding, taste of Puddles still coating his tongue, his body folded tight and aching. The boot remained closed. They had left him here, deliberately, to stew in the dark and listen to the silence and wonder what was coming.
He had no idea how long he waited. Minutes, perhaps. The cold crept into his bare skin, and he shivered, the metal floor drawing the warmth from his body. But his cock would not soften, no matter how the fear gnawed at him. He lay there, gagged and bound and naked, and thought about the clamp and the ice and the speculum, and he did not know whether the anticipation was terror or hunger. He suspected it was both.
The silence stretched, cold and thick, until a sharp click broke it. The boot latch released. Light flooded in, harsh and white, and Paul blinked against it, his eyes streaming after so long in the dark.
A woman looked down at him. She was in her late twenties, blonde hair cut into a severe bob, wearing a dark two-piece suit that had the precise cut of a uniform. Her face was unsmiling, her grey eyes flat and appraising as she looked at the naked, bound man folded in the boot. She did not speak. She simply looked, the way one might inspect a parcel for damage in transit.
"Tim," she said, without turning. "Get it out."
A young man appeared beside her, moving with a soft grace that belied his height. His face was almost pretty, delicate bone structure, clear skin, and his clothes were loose silk that caught the light as he moved. He looked down at Paul with kind, concerned eyes.
"All right," he said gently. "Let's get you out of there. Careful now."
He reached in and took Paul under the arms, easing him upright with surprising strength. Paul's legs had gone numb, pins and needles screaming through his thighs as the blood returned. Tim held him steady while he tried to find his feet on the gravel.
"Take it inside," Suzette said. "It's filthy. It needs to be cleaned."
Tim looped an arm around Paul's waist, supporting his weight as he stumbled over the loose stones. Paul's bound hands were still behind his back, his cock bobbing against his belly, the tape sealing the dildo in his mouth. He could not speak. He could not ask questions. He could only shuffle forward through the cold night air, following the woman in the suit.
The house was large, stone and timber, set back among tall pines. Light spilled from tall windows, but no faces appeared in them. Tim steered Paul through a side door into a utility room, then through another into a space that was clearly a converted outbuilding. Stone floor, high ceiling, exposed beams. And in the centre, a huge upright wooden cross, shaped like an X, with leather straps hanging from each arm.
Suzette was already there, waiting. She had a hose in her hand, coiled like a snake, and a bucket at her feet. She watched Paul approach with the same flat, unimpressed expression, as if he were a piece of furniture being wheeled in for cleaning.
"Strap it," she said.
Tim guided Paul to the cross, turning him to face the wood. Paul offered no resistance. His legs were still shaky from the hour in the boot, his mind reeling from the transition from dark silence to this bright, cold space. Tim worked efficiently but kindly, his touches gentle as he positioned Paul's body against the timber.
The straps went around his wrists first, fastened at the top of the X. Then his ankles, spread wide at the bottom. His chest was pressed against the rough wood, the grain biting into his skin. The tape still sealed his mouth, the dildo heavy on his tongue, and he breathed through his nose in short, sharp bursts.
Suzette approached with the hose. Tim had moved away, gathering towels and a scrub brush from a shelf against the wall. He set them down near the bucket and stepped back, watching with a faint frown of concern.
"Water on," Suzette said.
Tim obeyed. The hose hissed, then spat, then ran clear and cold. Suzette took the nozzle and aimed it at Paul's back.
The shock of it stole his breath. Icy water slammed into his spine, cascading down his flanks, pooling at his feet. He gasped against the tape, his body jerking against the straps. Suzette did not react. She played the hose across his shoulders, down his arms, over his ribs, methodical and unhurried, washing away the grime of the boot with the same detached attention a car detailer might give a chassis.
She worked her way down his body. The water was relentless, finding every fold, every crevice. She lifted his cock with the toe of her boot and sprayed beneath it, scouring the sensitive skin of his perineum. Paul shuddered, his hips twitching involuntarily, but she held his flesh steady with her boot and played the water over his balls until they were clean and goose-pimpled.
"Brush," she said.
Tim handed her the scrubbing brush. It was medium-bristled, the kind used on a car’s body-work, and she lathered it in soap from the bucket before applying it to Paul's skin.
She scrubbed his back in long, efficient strokes, working the soap into a lather that ran in white rivulets down his flanks. She did not hurry. She did not check whether the pressure was painful. She scrubbed as if he were a floor, a wall, an object that had become dirty and required restoration.
Paul's skin was turning pink under the bristles. His nipples, scraped by the brush, were raw and stinging. She scrubbed his armpits, his ribs, the hollow of his spine. She worked the brush between his legs, over his buttocks, into the crack where the soap bubbled and stung. He clenched his jaw around the dildo, his eyes squeezed shut, breathing hard through his nose.
"There's a lot of it," Suzette said flatly, inspecting him. "She said it was well maintained. It doesn't look it."
Tim said nothing. His hands hovered near Paul's shoulder, ready to steady him, his expression troubled.
Suzette moved to his front. She unstrapped one wrist, repositioning him so his back was against the cross, then refastened the strap. Paul turned to face her, naked and dripping, his body covered in soap suds.
She looked at him. At his face, his chest, his cock, which had softened under the assault of cold water and stiff bristles. She did not look at his eyes.
"Hold its head," she said.
Tim stepped forward and took Paul's head in his hands, tilting it back. Paul submitted, his throat exposed, the tape over his mouth still holding the dildo in place.
Suzette brought the brush to his face. She scrubbed his cheeks, his forehead, his jaw, working the soap into his skin with the same detached efficiency. She scrubbed his ears, the back of his neck, the line of his collarbone. She avoided the tape over his mouth, but she scrubbed everything around it until his face was raw and stinging.
The cold hose came again, rinsing him down. The water ran over his belly, down his thighs, over his shrinking cock. Suzette played it methodically over every inch, and when she was done she turned off the water and stood back.
Paul dripped. He shivered, his skin gooseflesh from scalp to sole. The tape was still in place, the dildo still on his tongue, and he could taste the soap now, a faint chemical tang mixed with the salt of his own sweat.
Suzette studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded, once, as if satisfied that the object was now clean.
"Bring it inside, with the others.”
She turned and walked away, the hose dragging behind her across the stone floor.
Tim took a towel from the pile and began to dry Paul gently, patting rather than scrubbing, his hands careful around the raw patches of skin. He worked in silence, but his eyes were kind, and when he met Paul's gaze there was a small, apologetic shake of his head.
"Come on," he said softly. "Let's get you dry before you freeze."
Tim finished drying him in silence, working the towel over Paul's raw, tingling skin with a gentleness that seemed almost out of place in this cold, stone-floored outbuilding. When he was done, he draped the towel over his arm and stepped back, studying Paul with those kind, troubled eyes.
"I'm sorry about the brush," he said quietly. "Suzette doesn't believe in easing people in."
Paul could only blink at him over the tape, the dildo still a hard weight on his tongue.
Tim unfastened the straps and helped Paul step down from the cross. His legs were still shaky, but the blood had returned to them, and he could stand on his own now, naked and dripping and pink-skinned under the harsh lights. Tim took his elbow and guided him toward a door at the far end of the outbuilding.
"She said with the others," Tim murmured, more to himself than to Paul. "I suppose that's where we're going."
The door opened onto a corridor, stone-floored and white-walled, the kind of passage that belonged to a restored farmhouse. Tim led Paul along it, his grip light but steady on Paul's upper arm. They passed two closed doors, then a third, and Tim stopped.
"Be brave," he said, and opened the door.
Paul was pushed gently into the room, and the door closed behind him with a soft click.
It was a large space, warmer than the corridor, with a thick rug on the floor and heavy curtains drawn across what must have been windows. The light was low, amber, cast by lamps rather than the harsh fluorescents of the outbuilding. And in the centre of the room, arranged on the rug with the casual sprawl of discarded objects, were four people.
Three women and one man, all naked, all bound, all gagged.
The man was perhaps forty, lean and weathered, with grey streaking his dark hair. His cock was enormous, a thick, veined column even in its flaccid state, hanging heavy between his thighs. He was kneeling with his hands bound behind his back, his ankles crossed and tied, and a strip of leather held a ball gag in his mouth. His eyes flickered to Paul with a look of weary recognition, the acknowledgment of one prisoner meeting another.
The three women were each beautiful in different ways. The first was petite and dark-skinned, with close-cropped black hair and delicate features, her small breasts tipped with chocolate-brown nipples that were already hard in the cool air. She sat with her knees drawn up, her wrists bound to her ankles, her mouth sealed with tape.
The second was tall and willowy, pale as milk, with a cascade of ash-blonde hair that fell past her shoulders. Her body was long and elegant, her breasts small and high, her hips boyish. She lay on her side, her hands tied behind her back, her legs bound at the knees and ankles, and she watched Paul through wide, frightened blue eyes.
And the third.
She was kneeling, like the man, her hands bound behind her back with rope that crossed her shoulder blades. Her hair was a deep, rich auburn, tumbling in waves past her shoulders, and her face was the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers, high cheekbones, full lips, a scattering of freckles across her nose. But it was her breasts that seized Paul's attention and held it.
They were magnificent. Full and heavy, impossibly round, they hung from her chest with a weight that made his mouth water. Each one was the size of his head, the pale skin threaded with faint blue veins, the nipples large and rosy and already peaked. They moved with her breathing, a slow, hypnotic rise and fall, and as she shifted on her knees they swayed with a momentum that seemed almost obscene.
Paul stared. He could not help it. He had seen Hayley's breasts, had worshipped them with his mouth and hands, had thought nothing could rival them. But these. These were something else entirely. They were perfect in a way that defied reason, gravity-defying yet heavy, round yet natural, and seeing them on this woman, this scared and vulnerable woman, bound and naked and exposed on the floor, sent a jolt of heat straight to his groin.
His cock stirred. Then thickened. Then rose to full, aching erection, bobbing against his belly as if straining toward her.
The woman, met his eyes for a moment. Her gaze flickered down to his hardness, and a faint blush spread across her freckled cheeks. She looked away.
Tim, who had stepped into the room behind him, let out a soft chuckle.
Paul felt the man's hand close around his cock, a light, playful grip that made him gasp against the tape. Tim gave him a gentle squeeze, the kind of casual, friendly touch one might give a dog's ear, and shook his head with an amused smile.
"Don't worry," Tim said, his voice warm with understanding. "Lots of men have that reaction when they see Amber for the first time. It's practically a reflex. You should see what happens when she's allowed to speak."
He released Paul's cock and stepped back, leaving it bobbing, hard and erect, on display for the whole room to see.
"I'll leave you to get acquainted," Tim said, and there was genuine sympathy in his voice. "They'll be in for you soon. Make the most of the quiet while it lasts."
He left. The door clicked shut behind him, and Paul stood alone in the warm, well-lit room, naked and hard, with four strangers bound and gagged on the rug before him.