Chapter 27: Inspecting the Goods
The wave of expensive perfume washed over Hector, thicker than the woodsmoke now, layered with notes of spiced wine and something sharper – anticipation. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead on the crooked landscape painting, the pastoral scene a mocking contrast to his naked vulnerability. The hushed giggles that had rippled through the doorway solidified into a low thrum of distinctly female appraisal. He felt their eyes like tiny lasers scanning his hooded form, lingering on the gleaming pink chastity cage, sweeping down his legs, back up. A collective, almost predatory hum filled the room.
"Good lord, Julia," came Agnes’s unmistakable, dry-as-dust voice, sharpened by decades of classroom command. She sounded amused, like someone discovering a particularly exotic beetle. "Quite the display. Are they functional? Or merely ornamental?"
"Patience, Agnes," Julia replied, her tone clipped but not unkind. She moved smoothly to centre stage, positioning herself between the men and the advancing cluster of women. "Ladies, your Halloween entertainment, as promised. Four volunteers, eager to please." The irony in her voice was as dry as the old books lining the shelves.
Hector recognized Dorothy’s laugh next – bright, a little high-pitched with nervous excitement. He hadn’t truly believed she’d come, hoped she wouldn’t. Hearing it now, so close, sent a fresh jolt of terror through him. Was she looking at him? Could she tell? He clenched his hands tighter behind his back, the knuckles white.
"Ooh, look at Pink!" Henrietta’s booming pub-lady voice cut through. "Bit nippy for the little fella, isn’t it?"
Raucous laughter erupted. Hector felt his face burn beneath the leather.
"They look familiar, Julia," remarked Brenda, the baker’s voice softer, more thoughtful. "Especially… Red, was it?"
"Ah, Brenda," Julia said, a note of satisfaction creeping in. "Perceptive. Which brings us neatly to the game." She clapped her hands once, sharp and authoritative. "Attention, gentlemen." The hooded heads snapped fractionally straighter. "Ladies. These four have been… contributing anonymously to our calendar project for the past month. Providing… inspiration, shall we say?" Another ripple of knowing laughter. Hector recalled the humiliating photoshoot, the spa day where he’d been inspected like livestock. "Their conduct," Julia continued, "their… aesthetic contributions… were discussed. Evaluated. Scored. On our group chat."
A murmur went through the women. Hector’s stomach plummeted. They’d been scoring him all along? While he worried about Dorothy finding out, they’d been judging his performance in the cage?
"Quite right," Agnes chirped. "Black’s composition in the library stacks was particularly… atmospheric."
"Pink definitely photographed well in the Christmas setting," Libby added, her voice carrying a breathless eagerness that made Hector squirm. "Very festive spirit."
Julia held up a hand. "Precisely. Those preliminary points have already been tallied. But tonight? Tonight is where they earn their freedom. Or… not." She paused, letting the implication hang. "We need a visible scorecard. Efficient. Practical." She produced a handful of black, permanent marker pens from the pocket of her sharply tailored trousers. "Left buttock, gentlemen. Standard position. Ladies, you’ll each have a pen. Points awarded for performance, enthusiasm, obedience, and… entertainment value. Bonus points for creativity. Deductions for hesitation, failure, or dullness. Clear?"
"Yes, Ma'am," chorused the muffled voices, thick with dread.
"Right. Preliminary scores first. Based on their calendar contributions and their… arrival disposition." Julia scanned the women. "Agnes, Brenda, if you’d do the honours? Left buttock. Large, clear numbers. Starting tally."
Agnes snatched a pen with surprising speed. Brenda hesitated for a fraction of a second, then took one too. They moved towards the line of men. The perfume intensified. Hector braced himself.
"Mr. Black first, I think," Agnes declared. Hector heard shuffling, then the sharp scratch-scratch of the marker. "Library stacks merit a solid… seven." Scratch. "There."
"Mr. Red," Brenda said softly. Hector heard her move. "The bakery shoot… flour everywhere. Very messy." A pause. Scratch, scratch. "Five."
Hector was next. He held his breath. He felt Agnes’s presence, smelled her lavender and mothballs. Cold air hit his buttock. Her bony finger prodded his flesh.
"Pink," she announced. "Christmas. Acceptable presentation. Six." The pen tip pressed hard, cold and invasive, dragging across his skin. Scratch. Scratch. He flinched.
"Steady, Pink," Julia warned softly from behind him, the voice freezing him instantly.
Then Brenda approached. He felt the different pressure of her hand, softer. "The spa," she murmured, almost to herself. The pen touched his skin again, slightly lower. Scratch. He felt her add a digit. "Plus one for… endurance." Scratch. So, seven.
Relief warred with humiliation. Seven. But where stood the others? Who was winning?
They moved to Mr. White. The scoring seemed quicker, more perfunctory. Agnes: "Five." Brenda: "Four." He’d whimpered during the spa hose-down.
"Initial scores recorded," Julia announced as the women stepped back. Hector could almost feel the phantom numbers burning into his skin: 7. Barely a buffer. His heart hammered. Freedom felt impossibly distant.
"Now," Julia’s voice cut through the murmuring ladies. "The evening’s games. The real points start now. Fun and frivolity, ladies! Remember? Who’d like to choose their first playmate?"
"Ooh, me! Me!" Karen’s young, eager voice piped up. He could hear the rustle of her clothes, the faintest bump as she moved – the pregnancy prominent. "Can I have Pink? He looks… interesting."
Hector’s breath hitched. Interesting. Oh god.
"Certainly, Karen," Julia said. "Pink, step forward. One pace."
Hector shuffled forward, the rug coarse under his bare soles. He stopped, facing the vague shapes and colours beyond his hood.
"Right then, Pink," Karen said, stepping closer. He smelled a floral shampoo, sensed the warmth radiating from her. "Fun, yeah? Halloween. So… let’s see how flexible you are. Yoga challenge!" Her voice held a playful challenge. "Downward-facing dog. Hold it. Let’s see if you’ve got the… stamina."
He had to perform. Earn points. For Dorothy? Against Dorothy? For his freedom, trapped in this nightmare. He dropped his hands from behind his back, placing them on the rug, shoulder-width apart. He kicked his legs back, raising his hips towards the ceiling, adopting the pose. Vulnerable. Exposed. The cage felt like a cold, heavy anchor. Laughter swirled around him. He stared down at the patterned rug between his hands, the firelight flickering on the fibres, and waited, every muscle trembling. The game, terrifying and absurd, had truly begun. How many points was a downward dog worth? And how long could he hold it before he collapsed?