Chapter 72: Chapter 72
The fingers at his ear were sudden. A wriggling tension, something small and plastic being worked loose, and then a whoosh of sound flooded in as if a dam had broken behind his skull.
Laughter. Glasses clinking. The murmur of women talking, several voices overlapping. The taste of the air had changed too; he could smell wine, perfume, the warm fug of a room full of bodies. A party, then. They were having a party around him.
He was still bound to the frame, his arms stretched above his head, his legs spread and secured. The dildo was still lodged in his arse, thrusting in and out. His cock was still hard, aching, leaking against his belly. They had left him like this, aroused and denied, while they drank and laughed and talked about him.
"...still got it in him, do you think?"
"Oh, he'll manage. They always manage."
"Worm's going to break him? How humiliating."
A ripple of laughter at that. The word snagged in Paul's mind. Worm. Derision, disgust, and a kind of fascinated horror. Even the women who used him so casually lowered their voices when they mentioned Worm.
Suddenly there was warmth near his face. Perfume, floral and expensive. Clarissa's voice, close to his ear, pitched to carry beyond him to the room.
"Paul. You can hear me now, can't you?"
He tried to nod, but the frame held his head still. He made a sound instead, an affirmation through his nose.
"Good," Clarissa said. "I have something for you. A special something. The kind that only comes along once in a very long while, and only ever from me."
More laughter from the room. Someone called out, "He deserves it, Clarissa!"
"He does," Clarissa agreed. There was a pause, a sip of something. "Paul, I'm going to introduce you to Worm. Worm is my lowest slave. Lower than Puddles. Lower than anyone else in my household. Worm is... what shall I say? The bottom. The very bottom. The last rung of the ladder, and then a pit below that."
Paul felt the room go quiet. Not silent, but hushed, anticipatory. He could hear the shift of bodies, women leaning forward in their seats.
"Worm is going to ride you, Paul," Clarissa continued. "And I want you to know exactly what that means. She's going to sit on your cock, and she's going to take you in her arsehole. Her rectum. That's where you're going to end up tonight, buried inside Worm's dirty little arse."
A gasp from somewhere. A nervous giggle. Paul's stomach twisted, but his cock, his traitorous cock, twitched and hardened further.
"And from the state of you," Clarissa went on, and he could hear the smile in her voice, "you're going to cum. You're going to cum inside Worm's rectum, and every woman in this room is going to watch you do it. We're all going to see your cock pulsing inside Worm's arsehole, and we're going to watch Worm milk you dry."
The whispers started up again. Paul could catch fragments, torn loose from the murmur.
"...barely human…"
"...inside Worm, urgh, god..."
"...can you imagine..."
A woman's voice, loud and delighted: "He's going to fuck the Worm!"
Roars of laughter. Paul felt heat rise to his face even as his cock throbbed.
"And then," Clarissa said, and the room fell silent again, waiting, "Worm is going to pull her arsehole off your cock. And she's going to kneel over your face, and she's going to flex, and she's going to dribble every drop of your spunk into your waiting mouth. And you're going to swallow it. All of it."
The horror of it hit him like a physical blow. He had eaten his own cum dozens of times. It was a rule, Odette's rule, that whenever he came inside her he had to lick her clean, to taste himself mixed with her. But that was Odette. That was warm, and intimate, and somehow almost tender.
This was different. This was Worm. The lowest of the low, the creature the other women spoke of with such contempt. His spunk inside her arse, and then fed back to him from her rectum.
"A crowd favourite," Clarissa said, and Paul could hear the gesture of her hand encompass the room. "I've been promising them something all evening. Worm, bring yourself over here."
Footsteps. Hesitant, shuffling. Then a different smell reached him, faint under the perfume and the wine. Something earthy, unwashed. A body that had not been permitted the luxuries of the guests.
"Up you get," Clarissa said, her voice suddenly cold. "Onto the frame. Hands on his shoulders. That's it."
Paul felt the frame shudder slightly as Worm climbed onto him. A thin body, bony. He could feel the press of her thighs, rough against his hips, and the touch of her fingers on his shoulders, trembling slightly. She smelled of sweat and stale skin, of neglect. This was a creature who was not bathed for the pleasure of guests. This was a creature who served in other ways.
"Take him," Clarissa commanded. "Put him in your arse."
Paul felt Worm's hand close around the base of his cock, lifting it. Her fingers were calloused, rough. Then the head of his cock pressed against something tight, resistant. A moment of pressure, of teasing, and then Worm pushed down, and his cock slid into her arsehole.
The sensation was extraordinary. Tight, so tight, a burning grip that seared along his shaft, and Paul gasped, his whole body tensing against the frame. Worm let out a low, guttural sound, something between a groan and a whimper, and began to move.
She rode him slowly at first, her hips rocking, her arsehole clenching around his cock. Paul could hear the room around them, women murmuring, glasses clinking, the sound of excitement. He could hear Clarissa's voice, calm and amused: "That's it. Take him deep. Let him feel how filthy you are."
Worm began to move faster, her bony hips slapping against his. Her hands gripped his shoulders with surprising strength, and he felt her body grind down onto him, taking him deeper into her rectum. The tight heat of it was overwhelming, a sensation that was almost pain but not quite, that was almost pleasure but not quite.
He was going to cum. He could feel the pressure building at the base of his cock, the familiar swelling. He tried to hold it back, tried to resist, but Worm was relentless, fucking herself on him with determination.
"Don't you dare hold back," Clarissa said, her voice sharp. "You cum inside her. You fill Worm's arse with your spunk, and we all watch."
Paul groaned, his body arching against the frame. He could feel the eyes of the room on him, a hundred invisible gazes fixed on the point where his cock disappeared into Worm's arse. The humiliation was total, absolute. He was being made to fuck the lowest creature in the house, and he was going to cum inside her.
Worm rode him harder, faster, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She was making sounds now, low animal noises, and Paul heard someone in the room laugh, a cruel sound.
"He's close! Look at him, he's so close!"
Paul's hips bucked of their own accord, thrusting up into Worm's arse. He could feel her clenching around him, milking him, and with a gasp that was almost a sob, he came. His cock pulsed inside her rectum, jerking, flooding her filth with his spunk. He felt it happen in a way he had never felt before, the hot rush of his own cum filling a body that was not Odette's, not a woman's cunt, but the anus of a creature named Worm.
"Beautiful," Clarissa said. "Just beautiful."
The room erupted in applause. Literal applause, a round of clapping that was almost theatrical. Paul was still cumming, his body wracked with spasms, his cock still buried in Worm's rectum as the last of his spunk pumped out of him.
Then Worm was dismounting, her arsehole sliding off his sticky cock with a wet sound. Paul felt her move, felt her climb down from the frame. There was a moment of shuffling, and then Clarissa spoke.
"Kneel over his face, Worm. You know what to do."
Paul felt Worm's thighs settle on either side of his head, felt her weight on his face. She was close, so close. He could smell himself, the funk of his own spunk mixed with the sour smell of her.
"Open your mouth, Paul."
He opened his mouth, and Worm's arsehole pressed against his lips. He could feel it, the crinkled warmth of it, and then a flex, a push, and a thick dribble of warm liquid slid off her anus and into his mouth. His own cum, thick and viscous, sliding down his tongue. He swallowed, and she flexed again, and more followed.
The taste was different. Warm, slightly acrid, tinged with the unmistakable flavour of a body that had been neglected. His own spunk, warm from inside Worm's rectum, sliding down his throat.
"Swallow it all," Clarissa said. "Every drop."
Worm flexed again, and more cum dribbled into his mouth. Paul swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed. He could hear the women around him, the hush of awe, the whispers.
"My God," someone said. "He actually did it."
"He'll do anything," another voice said, with a kind of wonder. "Absolutely anything."
The last thick dribble slid down his throat, and Paul swallowed, his tongue darting instinctively to catch the final trace of his own spunk from the wrinkled flesh pressed against his lips. The applause had died down to a murmur of satisfied chatter, women turning back to their wine and their conversations, the spectacle over.
But then a new warmth was at his ear. Not the floral perfume of Clarissa. Something sharper, spicier. And a voice he knew, a voice that had once watched him writhe in agony with undisguised delight.
"Hello, Paul."
Nadia. Her lips brushed the shell of his ear as she spoke, her breath warm and unhurried. He felt her fingers trail down his chest, casual and proprietary.
"Did you enjoy that?" she asked. "Getting your cock milked by Worm? Swallowing your own spunk from her arsehole? Beautiful. Just beautiful. Clarissa really outdid herself."
She was still close, her voice low and intimate, pitched for him alone even as the party continued to hum around them.
"But we're not done, Paul. Not quite. Worm is still kneeling over your face, isn't she? I can see her arsehole from here. It's still glistening with your cum. Dripping, actually. A little mess of your spunk running down between her cheeks."
Paul heard someone laugh nearby, and Worm shifted above him, her thighs tightening around his head.
"I want you to open your mouth again, Paul. And I want you to stick your tongue out, all the way. And I want you to slide it inside Worm's arsehole."
A murmur of interest rippled through the room. Women who had been turning away turned back.
"And if you don't?" Nadia's voice dropped to a whisper, silky and cruel. "I have electrodes in my bag. Little ones, for the nipples. Bigger ones for the balls. I've wanted to attach them to you ever since I saw you at Odette's flat. You remember that night, don't you, Paul?”
Paul remembered. He swallowed, and his tongue slid out, tentatively, touching the crinkled flesh of Worm's anus.
"Good boy," Nadia purred. "Deeper."
The crowd had gone quiet again, watching. Paul felt the weight of their attention like a physical thing. His tongue pressed against the sphincter, found the give of it, and pushed inside.
The taste was overpowering. His own cum, still warm, mixed with the sour, earthy funk of a body that had not been cleaned for him. The muscles of Worm's arsehole clenched around his tongue, and Worm let out a low, guttural moan, her hips shifting above him.
A cheer erupted from the room. A genuine, raucous cheer, women clapping and laughing and calling out encouragement.
"Look at him! Licking out the Worm!"
"He's really doing it!"
"Fuck, that's disgusting. I love it."
Nadia's breath was hot against his ear, and he felt her fingers twist in his hair, pulling his head back slightly, forcing his tongue deeper.
"You're the first, you know," she whispered, and there was something dark and delighted in her voice. "The first person we've ever seen cum inside Worm. The first human, anyway. Whatever else has been in there, well." She laughed softly. "Let's just say Worm's seen some use that doesn't get talked about at parties."
Paul's stomach turned, but his tongue kept moving, licking out the inside of Worm's rectum, chasing every last trace of his own spunk. The act was degrading beyond anything he had experienced, and yet his cock, absurdly, impossibly, was stirring again.
"She likes it," Nadia murmured, her fingers still twisted in his hair. "Can you feel her clenching around your tongue? She's never had anyone do this for her. She's never had anyone do this to her."
Paul heard Clarissa's voice, rising above the noise: "That's enough, Worm. Dismount."
Worm lifted off his face, her arsehole sliding off his tongue with a wet pop. Paul gasped, drawing in deep breaths of air that tasted, suddenly, of wine and perfume again.
But Nadia was still there, her lips brushing his ear.
"That's it, Paul. You just licked out Worm's arsehole."
Nadia's lips still brushed his ear, her breath a soft, filthy warmth against the skin there. Around them the party hummed, women breaking back into their conversations, the weight of the spectacle already settling into anecdote. But Nadia was in no hurry to move on.
"I have videos," she said, almost lazily. "Of Worm. Dozens of them. Things she's been made to do over the years, since Clarissa took her in. You would not believe some of them, Paul. They have made me gag, and I am not somebody who gags. Do you know what she had to do while we all watched? I'll give you a hint. It involved a dog. A live one."
His stomach lurched, but he could not pull away from the words.
Nadia did not move her lips away. She let the words sit where they landed, her fingers still twisted loose in his hair, her thumb stroking the knuckle of his ear.
"Do you want to hear it?" she asked.
Paul swallowed. His mouth still tasted of Worm, sour and thick. Above him, the party rolled on, a woman nearby laughing at something, a bottle neck clinking against a glass.
"That's not a question you get to answer," Nadia said. "I was being polite."
He heard her shift. Something papery, a zip, the small plastic knock of a phone coming out of a bag. Then her hand cupped the back of his skull, tilting his head so his one free ear pointed up at her.
"Filmed it myself. Forty minutes ago, maybe. You were still on the frame. We'd hosed Worm down in the yard and brought her in and I got my phone out because I knew, I just knew, we'd be talking about it later."
The recording started. Tinny at first, then sharp, because she held the speaker right against his ear.
A woman's voice, off camera, bored and clear. That's Clarissa. Go on, sweetheart, tell them what you want.
And then Worm's voice. Paul had expected something guttural, something animal. It was neither. It was flat and young and a bit nasal, a girl from somewhere north, and it begged with the tonelessness of long practice.
Please. Please let Rex have me. Please, Mistress, let Rex fuck me, I'll do it in front of everyone, I'll say thank you, please.
Nadia's breath warmed the side of his neck. "You hear that word? Rex," she said. "Rex is a dog, Paul. Not a pet name. I mean a dog. A big one, Clarissa keeps him in the barn. He'd been watching her all afternoon through the fence."
On the recording, Clarissa said something Paul couldn't make out, and the room in the video laughed. A different room from this one, a colder room, tiled, because the laughter came back off the walls with an echo. Worm kept going. Please, Mistress, in the cunt, please, I want him in the cunt, I'll take him in the cunt and the arse and I'll thank you after.
"You notice," Nadia said, "she's the one asking. Nobody made her ask. Clarissa made her watch Rex mount a bitch in the yard first, twice, and she watched the whole thing and then she asked. Begged. On her knees on the concrete with her tits out, asking for it. I've got that bit too."
The recording went muffled, movement, a dog's claws clicking on tile. Paul heard Worm say please one more time, and then the audio dimmed down into a low steady rhythm and the sound of women talking over it. Casually. As if a television were on in the corner.
Nadia let two or three minutes of that run. The women on the recording discussed a holiday in Portugal. Someone refreshed a drink. Worm made no noise at all through any of it.
Paul's cock was hard again, hot against his own belly, and he hated it, and there was nothing he could do about the fact of it. Nadia must have seen, because she laughed softly.
"Don't worry about that," she said. "We all know what you are now. That's the point."
She stopped the recording. The room around them came back, real and loud and full of glassware. Nadia set the phone down somewhere close, on the frame's steel edge, and reached over him. She pulled the second earplug free.
Sound doubled. Women on all sides of him, half a dozen conversations, and somewhere further off the low rumble of a man's voice that had to be Tim.
Nadia crouched, put her mouth right against his ear, and spoke to him across the noise.
"So here's my question, Paul. Properly, now, and I want you to think about it while you're lying there with your tongue still tasting of her arse.”
She let it hang.
"Odette sent you to us. She knows what we are. She's known for years, she's been to these parties, she's poured wine while Clarissa did worse. She sent you anyway."
He made a sound. Not words, just sound, because his throat was raw and his jaw would not shape anything.
"And when she asks you, on Sunday, how the weekend went," Nadia said, "Shall I send her the video? Worm's arse, your cum, your tongue up it. And the one with Rex?”
She stood up. He heard the zip of her bag.
"Do you think she'll still want you after that, Paul? Because I have known Odette Dubois eleven years, and she’s a queen, but she’s not into this type of revolting stuff."
Definitely the wrong question. Paul heard her sit down somewhere near his knees, and the click of something metal on the frame's edge.
"Here's the thing you should be worried about," Nadia said. "Not whether she'll still want you. Whether she'll think this was enough."
Someone across the room called her name. Nadia called back, easy and social, and he heard her rise.
"Think about that while we have another drink," she said.
"Think about that while we have another drink," she said.
Her footsteps went off across the floorboards and were swallowed by the room. Someone shut a door further away. The party did not end so much as drift, voices thinning out, laughter moving down a corridor and fading behind walls. Glass clinked somewhere distant. A woman said something about a car and got no answer.
Paul lay in the frame and let the noise go. The dog story would not leave him alone. He'd heard Worm beg for it in a flat northern voice, bored with her own degradation. He tried to picture the tiled room and could not. Only the sound stayed, that toneless please, over and over.
His cock was still hard. His belly still sloshed when he breathed. Somewhere in the house, other rooms were doing other things to other people, and he was grateful, absurdly, to be alone.
Then heels on wood. Brisk, unhurried. Suzette.
"Still with us," she said. It wasn't a question.
He grunted.
She went round to the foot of the frame. He felt her hands on the base of the dildo, and then a slow, deliberate withdrawal, that long slick drag out of his arse. He made a noise he didn't intend and she let him.
"You're filthy," she said. "But you can't meet anyone else like this."
Water hit him. Cold, a hard flat jet from a hose, slapping his chest and belly and cock. He gasped and twisted against the straps, and the twisting did nothing. She worked the jet down his thighs, into the cleft of his arse, along his softening cock, and then up over his face. It stung. It took his breath. It got the spit and the dried cum and the stale smell of Worm off him in strips.
The hose stopped. A brush, stiff-bristled, scrubbed across his chest and under his arms, then his balls, hard enough to make him flinch, businesslike, thorough, no tenderness in it at all. He was a piece of equipment being returned to service.
She cut the straps. His arms came down and the blood went into them in a hot rush and he nearly collapsed. She caught him by the shoulder and held him upright, and he stood there dripping on the boards, blind behind the lenses, shaking.
Then two fingers into his mouth.
He knew what was wanted and opened. The mouthwash was mint and alcohol and it burned along his gums, and her fingers moved it around his tongue and his teeth, pressing at the back of his throat until he gagged, then pulling out and pushing in again. Most of it ran down his chin.
Careful," she said.
When she was satisfied she tipped his head back and rinsed him with more cold water straight over his face, and he coughed and blinked behind the lenses at nothing.
"There," she said. "Better."
Her hand found his face and turned it, this way and that, examining.
"I'm glad I had this tongue before it went inside Worm," she said.
He said nothing. He had learnt that much.
She was dressed, he could tell from the sound of her, the rustle of a suit and the click of a heel on the floorboards. She took his wrist and put it behind his back. Then the other. He felt the grip of one hand, and then a finger, wet, sliding between his cheeks.
The same as before. A finger up his arsehole, hooked, intimate, a lead. He walked when it moved him and stopped when it stopped. She steered him out of the playroom and down a corridor, and he heard doors and the murmur of rooms he couldn't see, and once a woman's laugh, sharp and close, and a man's low voice, and someone pleading oh god oh god through a wall, the anguish and despair in their voice making him grateful for Odette’s protection, despite everything.
Stairs. Carpet under his feet, then boards, then carpet again. Warmth on his skin, a fire somewhere, the smell of wood smoke and clean linen. The finger withdrew.
He stood on a rug. Soft pile under his soles, and the heat of the room on his bare arse and his wet hair. He did not move. He could not think of a reason to. There was nothing behind the lenses but black, and nothing out there but hands that would come for him when they wanted him.
Suzette's hand took his left elbow and lifted it across his chest. Something heavy and canvassed settled over his shoulders, and she worked his arm down into a sleeve that ended at his own ribs. His right arm went the same way. The fabric was stiff and padded, and the sleeves crossed and met and then kept going, folding his arms one over the other, high on his chest.
Straps came over his shoulder and under his arms and around his back, and she pulled each one tight with a short, practised tug, testing it with two fingers underneath and then cinching it further. A belt around his waist, pulled until he made a sound.
He was folded around himself now. Arms crossed and bound, hands out of reach, the sleeves continuing around his back so that his own body was the restraint. He tried, once, to move an arm, and the whole jacket answered, pulling his shoulders forward, and he stopped.
"That's better," Suzette said. "You look tidier."
She walked around him. He heard the heel, left, right, behind, in front.
"It stands there," she said. "It stands there and it thinks about what it is, and it doesn’t sit down and it doesn’t lie down and it doesn’t make a sound. Does it understand?"
A nod was all he could do, and he did that much.
"Good."
She took hold of the back of his neck and walked him two steps across the rug to the fire. The heat came up his legs. He stood with his feet apart and his arms crossed, canvas growing warm, and somewhere behind him a door opened.
The fire clicked and settled. Paul stood in the warm room with nothing left to do but wait, and it occurred to him, dimly and without much interest, that he had stopped wondering what he wanted.