Chapter 28: Chapter 28
The cold hit him first. A shocking, slick gel applied with startling efficiency just as his thighs began to quiver from holding the downward dog. Hector gasped, the sound muffled by the hood, his hips instinctively jerking upwards. A ripple of laughter washed over him.
"Steady there, Pink!" Karen's voice was bright, amused, close to his ear. He could smell the floral shampoo mixed with a faint, sweet scent – baby powder? – as she moved around him. "Just evening the playing field a bit. Can't have our leader getting too comfortable."
He felt pressure, insistent but careful, pressing against the sensitive ring of muscle. His breath hitched again, a strangled sound escaping him as the snug, cool silicone plug breached him, seating itself firmly with a soft pop. The sensation was intensely alien, a persistent, undeniable fullness deep inside him. Humiliation burned hotter than the firelight on his skin.
"Handicap applied!" Karen announced cheerfully to the room. Applause and more laughter followed. Hector remained frozen in the pose, trembling now not just from muscle fatigue but from sheer, overwhelming vulnerability. The plug felt enormous, a constant, intimate reminder of his exposure.
"Now, Pink," Julia's crisp voice cut through the merriment. Hector flinched. "That little addition comes with a remote control." He heard the faint jingle of something small and metallic. "Consider it… interactive scoring. Enjoying the vibrations too much at any point during the party – visible trembling, audible gasps, premature… excitement elsewhere – will result in a point deduction. Understood?"
"Yes, Ma'am," Hector choked out, staring blindly at the rug fibers. Enjoying? It felt invasive, grotesque. Yet, a treacherous flicker of something else – a deep, involuntary twinge – pulsed where the plug sat. He clenched his fists against the rug, fighting it.
"Excellent," Julia said. "Karen, pass the remote to Felicity. Farmyard quiz next."
Hector heard the small device change hands. Felicity’s earthy chuckle reached him. "Right then, Pink. Hold that pose. Questions about barley. Get three right, points added. Get 'em wrong…" She paused meaningfully. "Well, let's just say I know how to motivate learning."
The questions began, rapid-fire. Hector, his mind scrambled by the plug and the hood and the sheer absurd terror of it all, struggled. He knew barley. He did. But the pressure, the fullness, the knowledge that Felicity held that remote… "Malting barley is primarily used for…?" "Uh… livestock feed?" he guessed desperately.
A collective groan went up. "Wrong!" Felicity declared. "Beer, Pink! The answer is beer!" Before he could brace himself, a low, insistent buzz erupted deep inside him. It wasn't painful, but it was profoundly unsettling – a relentless, internal thrumming that vibrated through his core. He gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily, nearly collapsing out of the pose. Laughter exploded around him.
"Point deduction!" Julia called out sharply. "Loss of control, Pink. That's minus one. Agnes, mark it."
He felt the scratch of the marker on his left buttock, the sensation sharp against the dull internal thrum Felicity mercifully switched off. He panted, sweat beading on his brow beneath the leather. The plug remained, a heavy, silent presence.
"Focus, Pink!" Felicity commanded. "Next question: What's the ideal planting depth for spring barley?"
He scrambled, picturing fields. "Two inches?" he ventured, hoping.
"Correct!" Felicity sounded surprised. "Well done. One point added." Agnes’s pen scratched again. Relief, fleeting and desperate, washed over him. The plug felt marginally less oppressive.
"Final question," Felicity continued. "Name one common barley disease in this region."
His mind blanked. The fire crackled. Someone coughed. The plug sat there, a silent threat. "Er… rust?" he guessed wildly.
"Net blotch!" Felicity corrected. "Buzz time!" The vibration kicked in again, stronger this time, a relentless, deep massage that made his knees wobble dangerously. He clenched his teeth, a low groan escaping despite his efforts. His caged cock throbbed uselessly against the restrictive metal.
"Another deduction!" Julia announced. "Audible reaction. Agnes?" Another scratch on his skin. Hector sagged, the downward dog becoming an agonized slump. He was failing. Spectacularly.
"Alright, Pink, you can come up," Felicity said, a hint of pity in her voice. "Two wrong, one right. Net result: zero points. Bit disappointing." She patted his shoulder as he shakily straightened, the movement making the plug shift uncomfortably. "Remote’s going to Dolores now. Fiesta time!"
Dolores’s rich, accented voice cut through the chatter. "¡Vale! Pink, stand straight. Shoulders back!" Hector obeyed, feeling utterly drained. "Now, we dance! Flamenco passion! Show me your hips!" She clapped her hands sharply, setting a rapid rhythm. "¡Olé!"
Hector stood frozen. Dance? Hooded? Plugged? With everyone watching? Panic seized him.
"Move those hips, Pink!" Dolores commanded. "Feel the rhythm! Or…" She trailed off meaningfully. He heard the faint click of the remote button being tested.
Terrified of another buzzing humiliation, Hector tentatively shifted his weight from one foot to the other, attempting a pathetic, stiff shuffle. More laughter. He tried a small hip roll. The plug shifted inside him, a slick, intrusive reminder. He felt ridiculous.
"¡Más fuego!" Dolores cried. "More fire! You dance like my Paolo after too much wine! Is that passion? No!" She clapped faster. Hector forced his hips into a wider, more awkward swing. The plug dragged against his inner walls with each movement. It wasn't pain, but it was intensely distracting, deeply shameful. He felt sweat trickle down his spine.
"Better! A little better!" Dolores conceded. "For effort… two points!" Agnes’s pen scratched. Hector almost wept with relief. Two points! He kept moving, the absurdity of his hooded, plugged flamenco under the critical gaze of the WI ladies almost overwhelming.
He heard Dorothy’s laugh again, bright and sharp. Was she enjoying this? The thought was a knife twist. He focused on the clapping, on the desperate sway of his hips, trying to ignore the persistent fullness, the threat of the remote in Dolores's hand.
The music stopped abruptly. "Enough!" Dolores declared. "Passable. For a banker." She chuckled. "Remote to… Libby! Christmas cheer!"
Libby’s breathy, eager voice piped up. "Oh, lovely! Pink, darling, on your knees! Let's see those festive skills!"
Hector sank to his knees on the thick rug, the plug settling heavily. Libby bustled close. He smelled cinnamon and cloves – Christmassy scents. "Now, Pink," she instructed, her voice trembling slightly with excitement, "I want you to… unwrap your present!"
Confusion warred with dread. Unwrap? What present? He had nothing. He stayed kneeling, utterly still.
"No, silly!" Libby giggled. "Me! I'm the present! Undo my bow!" He felt her guide his bound hands clumsily upwards towards her waist. His fingers brushed stiff satin ribbon tied in a large bow at her front. "Go on, Pink! Untie it! Show me you know how to handle a lady's… packaging."
His fingers, numb and clumsy behind his back, fumbled with the slick satin. The knot was tight. He tugged, his movements awkward and hampered. Laughter bubbled around him. He pulled harder, desperation rising. The plug felt like it was mocking him. Finally, with a frustrated grunt, he managed to loosen it enough for the bow to sag open.
"Success!" Libby cried delightedly. "Oh, well done, Pink! Very deft! Three points for festive unwrapping!" Agnes’s pen scratched again. Hector slumped forward slightly, exhausted. The numbers on his buttock felt like a brand. He was still ahead, barely, but each interaction was draining him, exposing him further.
The remote changed hands again. He heard Henrietta’s booming laugh. "Right, Pink! Pub quiz time! Let's see if you know your ales!"
Before Henrietta could fire her first question, a different voice cut through, clear and firm. Dorothy’s.
"Actually, Henrietta," she said, stepping forward. Hector’s blood ran cold. He could feel her gaze on him. "If it’s alright, I’d like Pink next. For… a special round." Her voice held a strange mix of mischief and something sharper, something dangerous. "I believe it’s my turn with the remote."
Silence fell, thick and sudden. Hector stopped breathing. The plug inside him felt like an anchor dragging him into an abyss. Dorothy had the remote. Dorothy knew about the plug. Dorothy was standing right in front of him. The game, already terrifying, had just plunged into uncharted, deeply perilous territory. The faint scent of her familiar perfume – jasmine and vanilla – washed over him, a cruel contrast to the cold dread flooding his veins. Her fingers closed around the small device with a soft, decisive click.