Chapter 20: Anticipation Building
The scent of burnt toast lingered stubbornly in the kitchen air, mixing uneasily with Dorothy’s expensive jasmine perfume. Hector pushed scrambled eggs around his plate, the plastic edge of his cage a constant, nagging pressure against his thigh under the tablecloth. Seventeen days. Julia’s boot crushing the key. The invoice. He couldn’t shake the images.
Dorothy bustled in, humming, carrying a steaming mug of tea. She set it down, then reached into the pocket of her vibrant floral apron. Not for a spoon. She pulled out a retractable fabric measuring tape, the yellow kind tailors used.
"Right then, love, just a quick check," she chirped, her voice bright as the morning sun streaming through the window. Before he could react, the cold tape snaked around his forehead. Her fingers brushed his temples, surprisingly firm. "Hold still."
"Huh? Dorothy, what—?" Hector flinched, nearly knocking over his orange juice. "Check for what?"
"Oh, just a little something," she said breezily, jotting down a number in a small notebook she’d also produced. "Julia mentioned needing precise cranial measurements for... well, you know how particular she is about her Halloween props. Wants everything just so." She flashed him the mischievous glint he usually found endearing. Now it felt predatory. The tape moved down, encircling his neck, snug against his Adam's apple. "Good, good. Nice strong column." She wrote again, snapping the tape back into its case with a click that felt final. "All done! Thanks, darling." She pecked his cheek and whisked away the notebook before he could see the figures. The whole interaction took less than thirty seconds, leaving him feeling like a mannequin in his own kitchen.
He fled to the shower. The hot water sluiced over him, a temporary reprieve from the cage, the measurements, the gnawing sense of being... catalogued. He leaned his forehead against the cool tiles, breathing in the steam, trying to find the calm of the swimming pool. The water drumming on the plastic enclosure was loud, isolating.
He didn’t hear the bathroom door open. The sudden, harsh snap-hiss of the shower curtain being yanked back made him yelp and whirl around, instinctively covering himself.
Dorothy stood there, phone already raised. Her expression wasn't malicious, just intensely focused, like she was photographing a particularly interesting cake for the WI newsletter.
"Hector! Perfect!" she exclaimed, her voice echoing off the tiles. The phone's flash exploded in the steamy gloom. Click. Whirr. Hector froze, water streaming down his face, one hand futilely covering his groin, the other braced against the wall. The pink cage, starkly visible against dripping skin, felt horribly exposed under the clinical glare. "Just need a couple more angles," Dorothy said cheerfully, stepping closer, ignoring his nakedness, his shock. "Turn a bit towards the light? There we go." Click. Whirr. "Lovely. And maybe one showing the fit?" She gestured vaguely downwards with the phone. Mortification burned hotter than the water. He turned slightly, exposing the curve of the plastic, the unforgiving lock. Click. Whirr. "Brilliant! Julia will be chuffed." She lowered the phone, beaming. "Thanks, sweetheart. Don’t take too long, the water bill!" And with that, she pulled the curtain shut, her footsteps retreating, leaving him trembling, the air suddenly cold despite the steam.
He dressed mechanically, the cage a constant, shameful weight. The rest of the morning passed in a blur of spreadsheets and tax codes, a desperate attempt to anchor himself in the mundane. Numbers were safe. Predictable. Numbers didn’t measure your head or photograph your captivity.
Later, seeking a distraction, he picked up Dorothy’s iPad, left open on the kitchen table after her latest WI planning session. A notification banner glowed at the top: ‘Secrets & Surprises - New Messages’. A tap. Instinct overrode caution.
He found himself in a WhatsApp group chat titled, chillingly, ‘Halloween Assets’. His own dripping, caged image was the most recent post, followed by a flurry of replies:
`Dorothy: All measurements confirmed! Mr. Pink, locked and photographed as requested! `
`Julia: Excellent efficiency, Dorothy. Dimensions received. Proceed with fabrication. Standard security protocols for Mr. Pink remain in place.`
`Agnes: Oh, he looks sturdy! Very promising canvas, Dorothy dear. My roses could use that kind of attentive pruning… `
`Felicity: Nice cage fit! Looks snug. Hope he doesn’t chafe in the barley field later… `
Hector’s stomach lurched.Mr. Pink? They’d named him after the cage colour? He scrolled up, his fingers numb.
Above his photo was another image. A different man, similarly shower-damp. Leaner torso. A sleek, black chastity device clearly visible. Captioned: `Elizabeth: Mr. Black. Maintenance check complete. Security optimal.`
Further up, a third photo. Stockier build. Water droplets on coarse hair. A bright white cage. `Georgina: Mr. White. Sanitised and secured after choir practice. Awaiting next instruction. `
And another. A fourth man. Paler skin, thinner legs. A cage the colour of fresh blood. `Libby: Mr. Red. All festive and ready! Tinsel optional? `
The messages flew:
`Brenda: Ooh, Mr. White looks keen! Bet he’d knead some dough… `
`Ingrid: Flexibility assessment for Mr. Black required? My stream is very secluded… `
`Karen: Getting big ideas looking at Mr. Pink! This baby needs some entertainment… `
`Dolores: Paolo is very interested in Mr. Red’s progress. Observational studies continue. `
`Henrietta: Round of applause for the collection! Four fine assets. Pub crawl potential? `
Hector dropped the iPad like it was electrified. It clattered onto the table. He stumbled back, bracing himself against the counter. The cozy kitchen, with its smell of tea and cookies, felt like a stage set. A facade. His breath came in short, sharp gasps.
Four men. Colour-coded. Photographed. Discussed. Assets.Him. Mr. Pink. Not singular. Not special. Part of a set. Inventory. Julia’s ‘fabrication’. Agnes’s ‘canvas’. Felicity’s potential chafing hazard. Karen’s… entertainment. The measurements. The photos. The cheerful, brutal efficiency of it. The gold stars on the calendar above the fireplace seemed to blaze with cold, mocking light. Seventeen days. He wasn’t just Dorothy’s secret project. He was communal property. One of four. Trapped in pink plastic, catalogued for Halloween, in a village where every familiar face now hid a stranger with terrifying appetites. The silence of the house pressed in, thick with the unspoken collusion of the ‘Secrets & Surprises’ group, echoing with the phantom clicks of four separate locks.