Chapter 12: The Afternoon Gauntlet
The haze of exhaustion was a physical weight, a leaden warmth in his bones. Aidan drifted, aware of hands moving over him—Catriona’s, he thought—wiping a cool cloth across his brow, his throat.The world was soft at the edges. He heard the muted clink of a glass, a faucet running in the attached bathroom, the distant murmur of voices from the living room.For a suspended moment, there was peace.It didn’t last.
“Alright, princess. Naptime’s over.” Zelda’s voice cut through the fog, crisp and commanding.Hands gripped his shoulders, rolling him onto his back. He blinked up at the ceiling, the fairy light weaving shadows. All four women stood around the bed, now dressed in simple loungewear: soft shorts, thin tanks.They looked refreshed, vibrant. He felt like a used dishrag.
“We’ve been discussing your stamina,” Catriona said, perching on the bedside.Her fingers traced the line of his jaw. “Four times before noon is impressive.But we’re curious about your limits. The real ones.”
“And we want to see you beg,” Freya added, her smile bright and utterly merciless.
Before he could form a coherent protest, they moved with practiced efficiency. Sarah pulled him to a sitting position while Zelda produced more of Catriona’s scarves—these were dark green, silk. They guided him, his limbs heavy and compliant, to a straight-backed wooden chair they’d brought in from the kitchen.The cool wood struck his bare ass.“Arms behind you,” Zelda instructed. He complied, placing his wrists together at the small of his back. The silk looped, tightened, knotted.Another scarf secured his torso to the chair back. Then they pushed his legs apart, tying each ankle to a front chair leg, spreading him wide and open. The position was vulnerability itself.
“Remember the morning?” Freya whispered, her lips close to his ear as she finished the last knot.“All those things we did? Now you get to feel it without seeing a damn thing.”
The blindfold was black satin.It descended, plunging him into utter darkness. His other senses screamed to life.The smell of burnt sugar and perfume grew sharper. The rustle of clothing.The sound of their breathing, circling him.
A hand, he couldn’t tell whose, cupped his balls, a gentle, weighing hold.He jumped, the chair creaking.
“Shhh,” a voice soothed—Sarah. Her touch was followed by a soft, open-mouthed kiss on the tip of his cock.It was already half-hard, traitorously responsive. Her lips were slick, maybe from her own saliva, maybe from a touch of oil. She took him slowly, her mouth a hot, wet slide down his shaft, then back up. He gasped, his head falling back.Just as he began to thrust upward, seeking more, she vanished. The loss was a physical ache.Then a different mouth, hungrier, more aggressive, engulfed him. Freya.He knew by the enthusiastic hum, the way her teeth grazed lightly along the sensitive ridge. She bobbed fast, her hand working his base, her other hand squeezing his inner thigh. Pleasure coiled, tight and urgent, deep in his gut. “Fuck, Freya,” he groaned.She pulled off with a wet pop. “Not yet.”
Lips found his nipple—Catriona’s. She licked, then sucked hard, her fingernails scratching through the hair on his chest.At the same time, a slow, slick stroke traveled the length of his cock. Oil.Sarah’s hand, he thought. It glided up, then down, a maddening, perfect rhythm synchronized with Catriona’s mouth.He was panting. The orgasm built, a cresting wave.His hips strained against the bonds. “I’m gonna… I’m close…”
“We know,” Zelda’s voice came from his right. Her breath was warm on his neck. Simultaneously, a single, cool, oil-slick finger pressed against his asshole.He froze. The finger circled, then, with inexorable pressure, breached him.He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.The invasion was shocking, intimate, profoundly vulnerable. She pushed deeper, crooking her finger, and found a spot that made white light explode behind the blindfold.“Jesus Christ!” he shouted, bucking.
“There it is,” Zelda purred, her finger still moving inside him, pressing relentlessly on that bundle of nerves. Sarah’s hand continued its stroking, faster now.Catriona bit his other nipple. The sensations converged, a furious storm of pleasure. He was right there, teetering on the edge, his body bow-string tight.Everything stopped.The hands, the mouths, the finger—gone. He was left in dark, aching emptiness, his cock throbbing, untouched, agonizingly full. A high, desperate sound escaped his throat.
“Please,” he heard himself beg, the word raw and shredded.“Please, let me come.”
Laughter, soft and circling.
“Who do you ask?” Catriona’s voice was in front of him.“All of you. Any of you.Please.”
“Good boy,” she said.
He heard the rustle of clothing being pushed aside.Then her hands were on his knees, her weight settling onto his lap. He felt the coarse thatch of her pubic hair against the head of his cock, then the exquisite, slow burn as she guided him into her. She was dripping wet, and she took him in one smooth, sinking motion until he was buried to the hilt inside her.She let out a long, satisfied sigh.
She began to move, not with the frenzy of before, but with a deep, grinding rotation of her hips, using the chair for leverage. Each downward thrust mashed his pinned cock against her inner walls, each rise dragged his sensitive head along a ridge of rough velvet flesh. It was slow torture of the sweetest kind.The others were silent, watching.He could hold on for maybe three more strokes. Maybe two.She leaned forward, her breath hot against his lips beneath the blindfold. “Come inside me,” she whispered, a low command. “Fill me up right now.”
It was the permission he needed.With a guttural, broken groan, he erupted. The climax ripped through him, a seismic release that shook the chair. He pulsed into her again and again, a deep, surrendering expulsion that left him gasping, shuddering, completely spent.
For a minute, the only sound was their ragged breathing.Then, gently, she lifted off him.Hands untied the scarves. The blindfold was removed.The afternoon light in the room seemed impossibly bright. He slumped forward, but they caught him, guiding his limp form to the bed.He expected them to leave. To declare the test over.
Instead, Catriona fetched the scissors from her desk—small, silver sewing scissors.Freya patted the space between her legs on the floor beside the bed. “Sit here, Aidan.”
Bewildered, he slid down, his back against the side of the mattress.Freya sat behind him, cradling his head against her stomach. Catriona knelt in front of him, the scissors in her hand.
“What…?” His voice was hoarse.“A little reminder,” Catriona said softly, her green eyes holding his. “You gave us the weekend.Your body, your time. All of it.” She reached forward and took a lock of his tousled brown hair between her fingers.
The snip was shockingly loud.A shiver, completely unrelated to temperature, went down his spine. He watched, mesmerized, as a two-inch piece of his hair fell into her open palm. She held it up, then placed it in a small, decorative ceramic dish on the nightstand.
Zelda took the scissors next.She knelt, her dark eyes sharp. “This is so you don’t forget who you belong to,” she said, and sheared off a piece from above his ear. Snip.Sarah went next, then Freya, each taking a token. They didn't butcher his hair; they took precise, deliberate pieces, leaving him noticeably, unevenly cut. It was a violation more profound than the sex, a permanent mark of the temporary surrender.
When they were done, Catriona ran her fingers through the uneven patches, a possessive gesture. “Ours until Sunday night,” she murmured, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “And even after, you’ll look in the mirror and remember.”
She stood, the ceramic dish with its four trophies in her hand. “Rest now.Really rest. We’re ordering pizza.”
They left him there on the floor, leaning against the bed, tracing the strange, short patches in his hair with trembling fingers. The satisfaction of release was still a warm echo in his veins, but it was now tangled with something colder, deeper.A submission that went past skin, past bone. He stared at the closed door, listening to their laughter down the hall, and knew the game had shifted once more. The weekend stretched before him, vast and inescapable, and he was walking it with their marks upon him.