Chapter 29: Smell Test
The scent of jasmine and vanilla hung heavy around Hector, thick as the silence that followed Dorothy’s announcement. He knelt on Julia’s rug, the plug a cold, insistent weight inside him, his heart hammering against his ribs. He could feel Dorothy’s presence, inches away, radiating a dangerous, unfamiliar energy.
"Special round?" Julia’s voice cut through the tension, sharp with interest. "Do elaborate, Dorothy."
"Oh, just a little… olfactory challenge," Dorothy said, her tone deceptively light. Hector flinched. Smell? "Something to test Pink’s… attentiveness. To the finer details." She moved away slightly, her footsteps soft on the rug. "Agnes, be a dear? The box?"
Hector heard rustling, then Agnes’s familiar shuffle. A faint, mingled odor reached him – fabric softener, dust, something vaguely organic. Agnes placed something small and soft near his bound hands. A garment. Fabric.
"Right then, Pink," Dorothy’s voice was closer again, hovering above him. "No peeking, obviously. We’ve brought you a little selection. One pair belongs to one of us lovely ladies here tonight." A ripple of nervous giggles swept the room. "Your task is simple. Sniff. Concentrate. Tell us who it belongs to. Get it right…" She paused, letting the implication hang. "Get it wrong… well, I have this lovely little remote." He heard the faint plastic click as she depressed a button. Nothing happened. Yet. The threat vibrated louder than any buzz.
Hector swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat. This was grotesque. Humiliating beyond words. He leaned forward slightly, his hooded face hovering over the soft bundle Agnes had placed near his knees. The scent intensified – laundry detergent, yes, but underneath… something faintly floral, powdery. Like old roses. He inhaled cautiously. It wasn't unpleasant, just… intimate. Deeply personal. Whose life smelled like this?
"Take your time, Pink," Dorothy urged, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Really get acquainted."
He inhaled again, deeper. The floral note was dominant, but underneath… a hint of something sharper, medicinal? Antiseptic? He thought of Agnes’s stiff posture, her practical shoes. Could it be hers? The floral scent didn't quite fit. Too old-fashioned. Julia? No, Julia smelled of leather and authority. This was softer. Gentler.
"Tick-tock, Pink," Dorothy sang. "Points are waiting."
Panic flared. He had to guess. "Agnes?" he mumbled, the name muffled by leather.
A collective gasp. "Agnes?" Dorothy sounded incredulous, then amused. "Oh, Pink! Wrong! Agnes wouldn't be caught dead in lace-trimmed satin!" Raucous laughter erupted. Agnes made a small, indignant noise.
The buzz hit him instantly. Not low and insistent like Felicity’s, but sharp, staccato, almost punitive. It jolted through him, making him gasp and jerk backwards onto his heels. The plug shifted violently. Humiliation burned white-hot.
"Point deduction!" Julia snapped. "Incorrect identification. Agnes, mark it." The pen scratched harshly on his skin. The buzzing stopped, leaving him trembling, the phantom vibration echoing deep inside.
"Try again," Dorothy commanded. Agnes swapped the garment. A new scent assaulted Hector’s nostrils – musky, animalic, overwhelmingly strong. Like damp earth and sweat concentrated. It was primal, invasive. He recoiled instinctively.
"Come on, Pink," Dorothy coaxed, her voice hardening. "Don’t be shy. Dive in."
He forced himself forward, breathing shallowly. This was… potent. Undeniably sexual. It smelled like skin, exertion, something deeply feminine and raw. Karen? She radiated vitality, but pregnant… would it be this strong? Henrietta? Her laugh was booming, earthy. He pictured her gardens. "Henrietta?" he ventured, voice shaking.
More laughter, louder this time. "Henrietta!" Dorothy crowed. "Oh, bless him! No, Pink, that’s Dolores’s signature scent! Passionate, isn't it?" Dolores chuckled throatily. "¡Sí, muy ardiente!"
Another sharp buzz, shorter this time but just as shocking. Another gasp ripped from him. Another scratch from Agnes. Hector slumped, defeated. He was drowning in scent and shame.
"One more chance," Dorothy said, her voice losing its playful edge, turning cold. "Get this one right, Pink."
The third garment was placed before him. This scent was… clean. Almost aggressively so. Bleach? Disinfectant? But underneath… a faint, familiar trace. Jasmine and vanilla. His own wife’s perfume. But layered over something harsh, chemical. Hospital soap? He froze. Dorothy wouldn't… would she? Submit her own? The sheer audacity, the cruelty of it, stole his breath. He knew this scent. Intimately. It was woven into his life.
"Dorothy," he whispered, the name barely audible.
Silence. Thick, heavy silence. Then Dorothy’s laugh, sharp and brittle. "Correct! Well done, Pink. Finally." There was no warmth in her voice. No buzz came. Agnes scratched a point onto his buttock, the pen tip feeling like a branding iron. Relief was cold and hollow.
"Enough sniffing," Julia declared, her voice cutting through the awkward tension. "The main event awaits. Ladies! Follow me." Her footsteps clicked decisively towards the hallway. "Gentlemen… bring up the rear. And try not to spill anything."
Hector was hauled roughly to his feet. Disoriented, he stumbled as he was guided out of the warm, firelit living room, down a dimly lit corridor he hadn't noticed before. The air grew cooler, damper. The sounds of the party faded, replaced by the muffled chatter of the women ahead and the shuffling footsteps of the other hooded men beside him.
Then, a heavy door creaked open. Julia’s voice echoed slightly. "Welcome to the cellar. Halloween edition."
They descended stone steps. The air changed dramatically – cool, slightly dank, but overlaid with the rich, spicy scent of mulled wine and the sharper tang of expensive perfume. And something else… leather? Polish? Metal? The acoustics shifted; sounds became sharper, bouncing off hard surfaces.
Hector blinked uselessly behind the hood as he was positioned near what felt like a cold stone wall. Julia’s voice rang out, amplified by the space. "Right! Drinks reception! Our esteemed waiters…" She paused for effect. "Pink, Black, White, Red… you have your orders. Each tray holds specific drinks for specific ladies. Get them right. Make them well – the bar is stocked, measures are marked. Prompt service. Any mistake – wrong drink, sloppy pour, spillage, delay – is a point deduction. Understood?"
A chorus of muffled "Yes, Ma'am"s echoed in the chamber. Hector’s mind reeled. Drinks? Trays? He couldn’t see! How? Panic clawed at him.
He felt hands guiding him. A heavy tray, cool and smooth, was pressed into his bound hands. Bottles clinked softly against glasses already arranged on it. "Your station, Pink," Agnes murmured close by, her voice devoid of sympathy. "Julia’s orders: Gin Fizz, extra dry. Felicity: Double Talisker, neat. Dolores: Sangria, heavy on the fruit. Libby: Babycham. Dorothy: Large Pinot Grigio. Go."
The names and drinks tumbled through his terrified mind. Gin Fizz… Talisker… Sangria… Babycham… Pinot… He clutched the tray, his knuckles white beneath the leather straps. The cellar buzzed with conversation and laughter, a wall of sound he had to navigate blind. He took a hesitant step forward, the tray wobbling precariously. Ice cubes rattled in a shaker nearby. He smelled citrus, whisky, wine.
"Julia!" he called out, his voice strained. "Gin Fizz, extra dry!" He shuffled towards the sound of her voice, praying he wouldn't collide with anyone. He sensed a presence before him. "Your drink, Ma'am?" he managed.
"About time," Julia said crisply. He heard the clink as she took the glass. A pause. "Acceptable. Next."
Relief, thin and fleeting. He turned clumsily. "Felicity! Talisker, neat!" He moved towards a burst of earthy laughter. "Here, Pink," Felicity’s voice came from his left. He adjusted, holding the tray out blindly. He felt the heavy crystal tumbler lifted. "Double measure?" she asked.
"Y-yes," he stammered.
"Good lad. Point safe." She moved away.
He navigated towards the rich cadence of Spanish. "Dolores! Sangria!" He held the tray towards her voice. He felt the weight of the glass lift. "¿Mucha fruta?" Dolores asked.
"Sí," he confirmed, hoping Agnes had relayed correctly.
"¡Perfecto!" She sounded pleased. Another hurdle cleared.
Libby was trickier. Her breathy voice seemed to come from everywhere. "Libby! Babycham!" he called, turning slowly. He bumped gently into someone soft. "Oh! Sorry!"
"Here, Pink darling!" Her voice was right beside him. He felt her small hand take the delicate flute. "Ooh, lovely and cold! Thank you!" She patted his arm. Safe.
One left. Dorothy. His throat tightened. "Dorothy! Pinot Grigio!" He called out, louder than intended. Silence greeted him. The chatter around him seemed to dip slightly. He strained to hear her familiar laugh, her voice. Nothing. Panic flared. Where was she? He took a step, then another, the tray tilting. Wine sloshed dangerously near the rim of the large glass.
"Careful, Pink," Julia warned sharply from somewhere.
"Dorothy?" he called again, desperation creeping in. He couldn't afford a spill. Not now. Not with her.
"Over here, Pink." Her voice was cool, detached, coming from his right. He pivoted clumsily, the tray wobbling violently. He thrust it towards her voice. He felt the glass lifted smoothly from the tray. No spill. He sagged.
"Prompt enough," Dorothy said flatly. "The wine is… adequate." No warmth. No praise. Just… adequacy. Agnes didn't scratch a deduction, but it felt like a loss.
"Excellent!" Julia announced. "First round of service complete. Minor delays, but no major faults. Points stand… for now. Now, for something more… interactive." Her voice dropped, taking on a playful, dangerous edge. "Karen, darling? Center stage."
Hector heard Karen’s bright laugh, closer than he expected. "Ready when you are, Julia!"
"Gentlemen," Julia commanded. "On your knees. Facing Karen. Close."
Hector was guided down onto the cool stone floor. He sensed Karen standing directly before him, could smell her unique scent – that floral shampoo mixed with the sweet, milky note of pregnancy. He heard the rustle of fabric.
"Bit chilly down here," Karen murmured, her voice low and amused. More rustling. Then a soft gasp from the other women. "There we go."
Hector sensed movement directly in front of his hooded face. A wave of warmth radiated towards him, carrying a scent both clean and deeply, intimately female. Skin. He realized with a jolt what was happening. She’d bared her breasts.
"Slippery Nipple time!" Julia declared brightly. "Karen has generously volunteered her… assets. We’ll pour a measure of rum onto one lovely breast. Our waiters will each have a taste… blindfolded, of course… and must identify the rum. Correct guess wins points. Wrong guess…" She paused. "Well, let’s just say Karen might need another wipe."
Hector’s mind blanked. Taste? Rum? On Karen’s bare breast? Inches from his face? While Dorothy watched? The plug inside him felt suddenly insignificant compared to this fresh horror. He heard the glug of liquid being poured, the soft wet sound as it hit warm skin. A rich, caramel-edged aroma filled the air directly before him – rum, definitely, but what kind?
"Pink first," Julia ordered. "Lean in. Taste."
Hector hesitated, paralyzed by shame and a terrifying, unwanted flicker of arousal. The warmth, the scent of her skin mixed with the pungent rum… it was overwhelming.
"Now, Pink!" Julia snapped.
He leaned forward blindly. His hood brushed against soft, warm flesh. He felt the wetness, smelled it intensely. He opened his mouth slightly, extending his tongue tentatively. It touched warm, smooth skin slicked with liquid. He tasted the rum – sharp, fiery, with a distinct smoky undertone. He pulled back instantly, his face burning beneath the leather.
"Well?" Julia demanded. "What is it?"
His mind raced. Smoky? Peaty? Like whisky? "Uh… Spiced rum?" he guessed wildly, thinking of common brands.
Karen giggled. "Ooh, wrong! That’s a good Islay single malt disguised as rum! Smoky, right?"
"Point deduction!" Julia called. "Incorrect. Agnes." The pen scratched. Hector flinched. He heard Karen sigh softly. "Someone fetch a cloth? Pink made a bit of a mess." The humiliation was absolute.
He knelt there, tasting the phantom smoke on his tongue, feeling the plug’s persistent presence, acutely aware of Dorothy’s silent scrutiny somewhere in the shadowed, leather-scented dungeon. The party swirled around him – laughter, clinking glasses, the other men taking their turns – but he was adrift in a sea of his own making, anchored only by dread and the cold stone beneath his knees. Dorothy hadn't used the remote. Yet. The knowledge was its own exquisite torture, vibrating louder than any buzz deep inside him. The game wasn't over. His wife was still holding the trigger.